ersity  of  California 


Duthern  Regional 


Library  Facility 


' 


THE    YOKE 


THE  YOKE 


BY 

HUBERT    WALES 

Author  of  "Mr  and  Mrs  Villiers" 


"What!  out  of  senseless  nothing  to  provoke 
A  conscious  something  to  resent  the  yoke 

Of  unpermitted  pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  everlasting  penalties,  if  broke!" 

—OMAR  KHAYYAM 


NEW  YORK 
THE   STUYVESANT   PRESS 


Copyright  1908,  by 

THE   STUYVESANT   PRESS 

NEW  YORK 


Publishers'   Introduction   to   the 
American  Edition 

The  wide-spread  interest  which  The  Yoke  has 
aroused  in  Europe  presages  its  enthusiastic  recep- 
tion in  America. 

To  those  discriminating  readers  who  desire  to 
consider  the  inadequacy  of  our  social  standards,  as 
applied  to  the  morals  of  men  and  women,  and  who 
find  something  more  than  pruriency  and  indelicacy 
in  a  serious  discussion  of  the  sex  problem,  the 
Publishers  respectfully  ofer  this  book. 

Subtle  insinuation  has  long  been  esteemed,  while 
more  graphic  expression  has  been  censured.  A 
lucid  delineation  of  the  salient  issues  of  a  problem 
is  essential  in  an  earnest  effort  towards  a  solution. 

Religious  teachings,  and  the  ever  advancing 
social  standards,  have  established  certain  rules, 
which,  while  apparently  tending  towards  a  higher 
moral  sense,  have  in  reality  affected  only  the  dis- 
passionate. Our  ideals  lead  us  to  a  secrecy  amount- 
ing to  hypocrisy. 

v 


INTRODUCTION. 

Man  is,  to  a  certain  degree,  immune  from  the 
disfavor  of  society.  Woman  may  not  transgress 
the  rigid  moral  standards  without  incurring  its  cen- 
sure and  ostracism.  To  sanction  the  iniquity  of 
man,  but  demand  purity  of  woman,  has  become  an 
attitude  of  society. 

Authors  who  write  sex-problem  novels  are  in- 
creasing in  numbers.  So  are  the  readers.  As  long 
as  the  output  comes  from  earnest  writers  to  whom 
the  subject  is  vital  and  their  treatment  virile,  writers 
impelled  by  the  realism  of  the  subject,  so  long  will 
the  public  eagerly  continue  to  read  in  spite  of  Mrs. 
Grundy  or  the  over-nice  critic. 

The  sex-problem  is  multiform,  and  varies 
in  individuals  as  they  differ  in  temperament  and 
environment.  The  problem  presents  itself  in 
a  great  variety  of  phases,  all  real,  and  consequently 
worthy  of  portrayal.  Perhaps  to  the  great  ma- 
jority it  does  not  present  itself  as  a  personal  prob- 
lem at  all,  but  even  such  fortunate  persons  cannot 
ignore  its  existence  or  be  injured  by  a  knowledge 
of  the  temptations  which  assail  the  less  fortunate 
of  humanity. 

FRANKLIN  FOSTER 


VI 


Preface 

TO  MY  FRIENDS 

KNOWN  AND   UNKNOWN 

When  he  was  about  to  go  to  Press  with  the 
eighth  edition  of  this  book,  my  publisher  suggested 
to  me  that  I  might  care  to  take  advantage  of  that 
issue  to  meet  the  attacks  which  have  been  so  un- 
sparingly directed  upon  it.  Time  was — and  not 
so  long  ago — when  such  an  opportunity  would  have 
drawn  an  immediate  and  eager  response.  For  it 
is  not  easy — though  we  sometimes  pretend  it  is — 
to  sit  quite  still  while  work  which  has  cost  years 
of  thought  and  months  of  effort  is  flagrantly  mis- 
represented by  prejudiced  critics.  Readers  of 
books  do  not  always  read  reviews;  but  most  of  those 
whom  I  am  addressing  will  have  gathered,  at  least 
from  hearsay,  that  The  Yoke  has  not  escaped  a 
full  measure  of  hostile  comment.  Few  books,  in- 
deed, of  recent  years  have  been  so  misunderstood; 

I 


PREFACE 

few  have  tempted  the  prim  critics  of  the  sensational 
Press  to  so  incautious  a  revelation  of  their  native 
vocabularies. 

Heated,  indiscriminate  assaults  of  such  kind  did, 
I  confess,  at  one  time  send  the  desire  to  remove 
misconceptions,  to  explain  my  aims,  to  strike  back, 
tingling  to  the  point  of  my  pen.  But  that  spirit 
has  passed.  I  am  no  longer  stirred  to  any  emotion 
by  these  things,  not  even  by  my  most  persistent 
enemy's  latest  and  most  subtle  goad — "One,  Hu- 
bert Wales."  I  do  not  wish  reply:  there  is  no 
need  for  it.  For  the  public  has  answered  for  me. 

It  has  answered  through  all  the  letters  of  sym- 
pathy and  understanding  which  have  reached  me 
from  strangers  (some,  strangers  no  longer},  it  has 
answered  through  the  spontaneous  kindly  assur- 
ances which  have  been  extended  to  me  wherever  I 
have  gone,  and  it  has  answered,  most  of  all,  through 
the  large  and  increasing  welcome  which  it  has  given 
to  the  book  itself.  It  may  be  said,  perhaps,  that 
any  novel  dealing  with  an  exceptional  theme,  es- 
pecially with  sex,  will  be  bought  and  read  from 
curiosity.  That  is  true  to  a  point.  But  The  Yoke 
has  passed  the  limit  attributable  to  such  an  incent- 
ive. Long  ere  this  its  brief  flame  would  have  flut- 

2 


PREFACE 

tered  out  had  the  public  not  recognised  Its  sincerity, 
Its  profound  conviction  of  truth,  Its  earnest  en- 
deavour to  set  forth  a  new  and  less  rigorous  view — 
a  larger  and  more  liberal  view — of  some  phases  of 
life. 

Still,  though  I  have  no  reply  to  make,  an  ac- 
knowledgment Is  surely  due  from  me.  The  author 
of  a  book  comes  less  immediately  In  contact  with 
his  public  than  the  author  of  a  play,  but  I  have  the 
fancy  to  regard  the  persistent  demands  for  editions 
as  so  many  calls  to  appear  for  a  moment  before  the 
curtain,  to  make  my  bow,  and  to  retire  again  into 
obscurity.  For  that  moment,  then — in  this  short 
preface — /  stand  and  look  across  the  footlights; 
not  as  a  defendant,  primed  with  excuse,  refutation 
and  counter  stroke,  but  with  gratitude  and  greeting 
in  my  heart  to  the  multitude  of  balanced  readers 
who  have  shown  abundantly  that,  whether  they 
agree  with  me  or  not,  they  are  able  to  view  with 
a  wide  mind  and  to  think  out  without  pre-judgment 
the  questions  which  life  presents  to  them. 

HUBERT  WALES 

HINDHEAD,  SURREY 
October  1907 


THE    YOKE 


CHAPTER  I 

A  MAID  !     A  maid  at  forty ! 

Angelica  laughed  a  little;  not  bitterly;  rather 
in  sheer  amusement  at  the  incongruous  association 
of  terms.  She  was  seated  at  her  dressing-table, 
sipping  tea  and  looking  through  her  letters,  clad  in 
a  becoming  dressing-gown  of  soft  blue  nun's 
veiling. 

That  in  itself  was  not  insignificant  of  the 
progress  of  time.  Among  the  signs  of  advancing 
years  none  is  more  marked  than  the  ability  that 
comes  with  them  to  rise  in  the  morning  without 
effort.  "Get  up  at  seven  every  day  of  my  life, 
sir."  Yes,  old  healthy  septuagenarian,  so  you  do, 
and  so  you  should.  You  are  not  entitled  to  seek 
credit  for  it.  You  have  had  all  the  sleep  your 
frame  requires.  It  would  be  an  infinite  bore  to 
you  to  remain  in  bed  any  longer.  Time  had  been, 
when,  morning  after  morning,  Angelica  had  had 

5 


THE  YOKE 

to  rush  the  final  stages  of  her  toilet  in  order  to 
give  her  father  early  breakfast  before  his  daily 
pilgrimages  to  the  City.  Now  she  voluntarily 
rose  at  half-past  seven  for  the  cup  of  tea  and  two 
thin  slices  of  bread-and-butter  which  her  maid 
brought  her;  when,  had  she  chosen,  she  could  have 
consumed  that  light  repast  without  changing  from 
the  horizontal. 

Still,  though  it  would  not  halt  for  her,  Time 
had  dealt  kindly  with  Angelica.  The  arm  which 
slipped  from  the  loose  sleeve  of  her  dressing-gown, 
as  she  raised  her  cup,  was  soft  and  round  and 
white,  with  a  little  dimple  at  the  elbow.  Her 
hair,  it  is  true,  was  grey,  but  it  was  all  grey,  and 
not  patchy,  and  it  had  chosen  a  pretty  shade, 
and  there  was  abundance  of  it.  Even  now,  loosely 
caught  up,  it  was  beautiful ;  later  in  the  day,  when 
the  somewhat  elaborate  operation  which  she 
carried  out  morning  and  evening  before  the  wide 
mirror  in  front  of  her,  had  been  satisfactorily  com- 
pleted, it  was  of  the  quality  which  drew  many  a 
passer-by  to  look  round  in  the  street.  Angelica 
was  no  humbug,  dear  reader.  She  liked  to  look 
nice  and  to  be  admired;  she  gave  time  and  thought 
to  the  achievement  of  those  ends;  and  she  would 

6 


THE  YOKE 

be  the  last  to  ask  me  to  persuade  you  other- 
wise. And,  while  we  are  on  the  topic,  we  may 
very  well  record  that  she  generally  succeeded  in  her 
objects. 

She  was  tall  and  still  slender,  but  with  elegant, 
wide  shoulders  and  a  delicate  wealth  and  symmetry 
of  contour,  such  as  no  girl  of  twenty  could  dream 
of  possessing.  And  her  movements  had  that  easy 
grace,  her  carriage  that  natural  confidence  which 
come  also  only  from  the  years.  Her  maidenhood, 
too,  had  at  least  given  her  that  exquisite  beauty  of 
cohesion  which  no  mother  can  have.  A  soft,  calm 
face,  unwrinkled,  was  illumined  by  a  pair  of  the 
deepest  and  sweetest  grey  eyes  that  mortal  could 
wish  ever  to  see.  A  quiet  intelligence,  an  infinite 
benevolence  and  compassion,  an  all-embracing  char- 
ity looked  out  from  them  as  clearly  as  stars  from 
heaven.  You  would  have  trusted  them,  at  the  first 
glance,  with  all  you  held  dearest  on  earth. 

The  matter  which  had  immediately  drawn  her 
thoughts  to  her  anomalous  condition — a  condition 
which,  not  unnaturally,  was  finding  an  increasingly 
frequent  and  insistent  lodgment  in  her  mind,  with 
the  steady  procession  of  years — was  a  letter  which 
she  held  in  her  hand.  It  was  written  on  blue-grey 

7 


THE  YOKE 

paper,  nearly  square,  and  had  been  drawn  from 
a  large  oblong  blue-grey  envelope.  The  hand- 
writing was  effervescent  and  irregular,  but  not 
without  strength,  and  was  distinguished  by  a  great 
wealth  of  exclamation  points  and  generally  some- 
what erratic  punctuation.  The  writer  was  an  old 
friend,  ten  years  her  junior,  now  married  and 
living  in  Exeter,  brimful  and  bubbling  over  with 
all  that  bound  her  to  her  husband.  Angelica 
could  remember  answering  a  ceaseless  flow  of 
questions,  emanating  from  her  active  brain,  as  she 
held  her  little  hand  during  a  first  pilgrimage  of 
the  South  Kensington  Museum.  This  was  the  let- 
ter:— 

"DEAREST  ANGELICA, — Be  an  angel,  like  your 
name! 

"Tom  is  coming  home !  Tom  is  coming  home! ! 
Can  you  believe  it?  He  has  been  in  Russia  six 
months,  and  we  were  only  married  a  year  before 
he  went!  I've  counted  every  single  day  since  he 
went.  Times  and  times  I  have  thought  he  was 
coming,  but  something  has  always  cropped  up  to 
prevent  him.  How  I  hate  business!  It  is  my 
only  rival.  Nothing  else  would  keep  him  away 

8 


THE  YOKE 

from  me  I  know.  But  now  he  has  really  started. 
/  had  a  wire  this  morning! 

"But  he  has  to  spend  a  week  in  town  on  his  way 
through.  Think  of  it!  A  whole  week!  While 
I  sit  here  and  wait!  I  just  can't  do  it,  dear,  so 
I  want  you  to  be  an  angel,  as  I  said  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  take  me  in,  and  him,  too,  of  course. 
Don't  say  you  have  no  room.  I  shall  cry  if  you 
do.  He  arrives  on  Thursday.  I  know  you  will 
have  us  if  you  can.  You  are  always  doing  some- 
thing for  somebody. 

"How  is  Maurice?  It  is  years  since  I  saw  him. 
He  must  have  grown  quite  out  of  recollection.  Is 
he  too  big  to  send  love  to  now  ?  At  any  rate,  there 
is  heaps  for  yourself,  dear,  from  your  affectionate 
friend  MAUDE." 

Angelica  put  the  letter  back  in  the  envelope 
with  a  smile  and  a  slight  sigh.  How  happy  they 
were  going  to  be!  She  knew  they  were  not 
sufficiently  well  provisioned  with  the  goods  of  this 
world  to  stand  the  racket  of  an  avoidable  double 
hotel  bill,  and  it  gave  her  keen  and  genuine 
pleasure  to  be  in  a  position  to  shorten  their  separa- 
tion by  a  week.  Yet  the  sigh  was  perhaps  ex- 

9 


THE  YOKE 

cusable,  perhaps  inevitable.  These  things  were 
slipping  by  her  while  she  did  "something  for  some- 
body." That  was  her  life.  For  forty  years  she 
had  been  doing  something  for  somebody — never 
for  herself. 

People  there  are  who  appear  to  have  been  given 
a  special  temperamental  adaptation  for  an  ascetic 
and  abstinent  life;  a  life  of  whole-souled  and  satis- 
fying devotion  to  others;  placed  in  the  world,  as 
it  were,  with  that  single  design  by  the  Creator. 
Angelica  was  not  one  of  those.  No  one  knew  it 
better  than  herself.  She  longed,  utterly  and  un- 
alterably, for  protective  love,  for  the  support  of 
someone  stronger  than  herself,  for  the  deeper  ex- 
pressions of  reciprocal  passion. 

But  Fate  had  ordered  it  otherwise.  Her  mother 
had  lived  only  long  enough,  after  giving  her  birth, 
to  call  her  an  "angel";  a  word  which  the  sorrow- 
ing husband  had  endeavoured  to  perpetuate  at  the 
font.  As  soon  as  she  had  left  school,  and  even  in 
a  partial  sense  before  that  event,  Angelica  had 
taken  up  her  role;  in  the  first  years  in  the  cause 
of  the  creature  comforts  of  her  father,  a  man  of 
excellent  intention  and  sound  probity,  but  in  his 
later  years  of  somewhat  crotchety  temper,  and  a 

10 


THE  YOKE 

little  too  apt  to  take  things  for  granted,  without 
reckoning  the  trouble  to  those  around  him.  At 
twenty  the  one  man  had  come  into  her  life;  a 
soldier,  a  man  of  deep  humanity  and  strong  and 
striking  personality;  a  widower  with  a  little  boy 
of  two.  Even  in  the  best  of  circumstances  Angelica 
had  known  that  her  marriage  must  depend  upon 
the  initiative  of  her  father;  upon  some  alternative 
and  satisfactory  scheme  for  his  welfare;  she  would 
not  have  voluntarily  left  him. 

But  the  best  of  circumstances  had  not  befallen. 
Within  a  year  of  their  meeting,  her  lover's  health 
had  developed  disquieting  symptoms,  which  an  emi- 
nent physician  had  struck  her  to  the  heart  by  diag- 
nosing as  cancer.  "A  tumour,  I  fear  malignant." 
So,  in  cold  words,  had  sounded  the  knell  of  her 
life's  happiness.  She  often  heard  them  still,  and 
she  saw  the  thin  lips  which  had  uttered  them,  nor 
would  she  ever  forget  them.  She  had  taken  her 
part  in  the  nursing,  through  all  the  stages  of  that 
distressing  and  terrible  malady,  not  shrinking  from 
scenes  which  tried  the  nerves  even  of  the  trained 
hospital  nurses.  At  the  end  he  had  died  in  her 
arms,  and  his  last  conscious  words  were,  "Take  care 
of  the  kiddie,  Angelica." 

ii 


THE  YOKE 

She  had  made  no  parade  of  her  sorrow — she 
was  considered  to  have  borne  it  well — but  for  all 
that  she  had  buried  her  heart  in  his  coffin.  Her 
nature  had  been  too  deeply  stirred  ever  to  respond 
in  quite  the  same  way  again.  And  therein  she 
felt  at  times  that  she  had  a  grievance  against  the 
great  Giver  and  the  great  Taker-away.  He  had 
removed  from  her  the  possibility  of  such  deep  and 
absorbing  love  as  could  make  happy  a  life-long 
union;  but  He  had  not  removed — and  He  ap- 
peared to  have  no  immediate  intention  of  removing 
— those  fundamental  instincts  which  are  the  base 
of  all  sexual  love,  however  superficially  ethe- 
realised. 

Her  original  piece  of  the  sugar-cake  which 
sweetens  entrance  into  this  world  for  all  humanity 
— the  possibility  of  joy  within  her — which  she  had 
faithfully  looked  at,  without  touching,  for  forty 
years — had  been  a  pretty  big  one,  and,  it  seemed 
to  her,  grew  bigger  with  watching.  It  was  in- 
evitable, in  the  conditions  on  which  her  earthly 
lot  had  fallen,  that  she  should  sometimes  be  brought 
to  wish  that  the  Giver  had  been  less  generous. 
No  one  knew — perhaps  no  one  ever  would  know, 
or  suspect — what  that  same  generosity  had  cost  her. 

12 


THE  YOKE 

The  vividness  of  her  own  imagination  occasionally 
frightened  her.  And  in  spite  of  her  vigorous 
constitution,  she  had  suffered  in  health,  sometimes 
for  months  at  a  stretch — needless  breakdowns, 
it  seemed,  vexatious  and  apparently  inexpli- 
cable. 

Five  years  after  her  lover's  death  her  father  had 
followed  him  to  the  grave.  And  so,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five,  she  had  become  her  own  mistress  in  a 
more  complete  sense  than  it  is  given  to  most  women 
to  be ;  with  a  host  of  friends  but  no  near  relatives, 
with  a  comfortable  income  and  a  house  in  Kensing- 
ton, and  with  "the  kiddie." 

For  the  last  twenty  years  Angelica  had  been 
"doing  something"  for  the  kiddie  in  question.  He 
was  now  a  young  man  of  two-and-twenty  "eat- 
ing dinners";  a  phrase  which  comprehended,  be- 
sides that  interesting  process,  such  legal  reading 
as  would  satisfy  a  body  of  not  very  stringent  exam- 
iners, and  a  regular  daily  attendance  at  the  cham- 
bers of  a  practising  barrister.  He  was  no  finan- 
cial burden  to  her;  his  father  had  left  him  suffi- 
ciently provided  for.  She  would  have  cheerfully 
acquiesced  had  it  been  otherwise,  would  have 
been  glad.  For  in  that  case  she  would  have  felt 


THE  YOKE 

a  stronger  right  to  direct  his  footsteps  over  the 
somewhat  quaky  ground  which  he  was  now  ap- 
proaching, had,  indeed,  already  set  foot  upon.  Not 
that  she  had  any  cause  of  complaint.  Maurice  was 
a  good  fellow.  He  fully  recognised  his  indebted- 
ness to  her,  genuinely  returned  the  affection  she 
lavished  upon  him,  and  cheerfully  deferred  to  her 
wishes. 

This  wholesome  adolescence  was  in  part  due  to 
his  inherent  soundness  and  in  part  to  the  sensible 
up-bringing  he  had  received  at  Angelica's  hands. 
Her  methods  had  been  governed  by  an  intelligent 
grasp  of  one  or  two  fundamental  truths;  particu- 
larly that  no  amount  of  preaching — of  "pie-jaw," 
as  it  is  called — direct  or  indirect,  whether  openly 
from  a  pulpit,  or,  worse  still,  from  an  arm-chair, 
or,  worst  of  all,  hidden  in  a  story-book,  ever  bene- 
fited the  mind  of  youth.  Its  only  probable  effect 
is  to  drive  off  its  object  at  a  tangent  in  precisely 
the  reverse  direction  from  that  desired.  Didactic 
methods  are  an  annoyance  not  to  be  suffered.  It 
is  an  open  question  whether  they  ever  permanently 
influenced  the  conduct  of  anyone,  young  or  old, 
except  those  who  unconsciously  already  occupied  the 
same  standpoint  as  the  preacher.  The  knowledge 


THE  YOKE 

of  good  and  evil  will  not  reach  us  through  officious 
human  agency.  The  feeling  that  a  fellow-creature 
is  endeavouring,  however  cautiously,  to  turn  our 
mind,  not  to  the  knowledge  itself,  but  to  his  own 
particular  conception  of  it,  produces  irritation  and 
revolt.  Boy  or  man  has  got  to  find  it  out,  work 
it  out,  worry  it  out  for  himself.  Then  he'll  see  its 
force. 

Angelica's  treatment  of  Maurice  had  avoided 
these  mistakes.  As  he  grew  up,  she  had  helped 
him  to  choose  his  books,  she  had  given  him 
opportunities  of  attending  places  of  worship,  she 
had  allowed  him  to  watch  her  own  mode  of  life, 
while  at  the  same  time  seeking  to  gain  his  respect 
and  affection;  finally  she  had  selected  the  best 
available  mediums  for  his  education;  but  she  had 
never  put  pressure  on  him,  and  she  had  never 
preached. 

Her  care  of  his  physical  well-being  had  similarly 
steered  clear  of  conventional  stupidities.  Has  it 
ever  occurred  to  you,  reader,  what  pigs  we  make 
of  our  children  ?  Foolishly  doting  parents,  in  the 
mistaken  hope  of  producing  additional  vigour,  treat 
them  as  vessels  to  be  stuffed  to  their  utmost  avail- 
able capacity.  The  child,  under  this  fond  tutelage, 

15 


THE  YOKE 

finds  that  a  third  helping  of  pudding  ranks  about 
equal  with  winning  a  race,  and  considerably  higher 
than  a  good-conduct  mark.  Consequently  he  be- 
comes permeated  with  the  idea  that  to  eat  as  much 
as  possible  is  one  of  the  principal  aims  of  exist- 
ence. He  is  lucky  if  he  can  get  through  life  with- 
out suffering  for  it. 

Under  Angelica's  discriminating  up-bringing, 
Maurice  had  come  out,  as  she  saw  with  pride  and 
thankfulness,  a  fine,  straightforward,  upright  young 
Englishman.  She  believed  he  had  no  vices;  and 
if  the  tendencies  and  passions  incident  to  all  flesh 
were  developed  abnormally,  or  at  all,  at  least  they 
were  discreetly  veiled  from  her. 

This  was  a  subject  which  was  giving  Angelica 
considerable  concern;  not  that  she  feared  for  his 
moral  welfare — she  had  no  uneasiness  about  that — 
but  lest,  in  his  thoughtlessness  and  exclusion  from 
affectionate  masculine  counsel,  he  should  fall  upon 
material  troubles  which  a  lifetime  might  be  insuffi- 
cient to  exorcise.  She  knew  the  dangers  of  the 
world,  especially  of  a  great  city,  for  a  young  man 
in  his  first  flush  of  liberty. 

During  his  Oxford  days  these  apprehensions  had 
not  worried  her;  she  had  felt  that  he  was  more  or 

16 


THE  YOKE 

less  safe.  It  was  only  during  the  last  few  months, 
since  he  had  come  to  live  permanently  in  town  and 
to  make  liberal  use  of  his  latch-key,  that  the  perils 
which  surrounded  him  had  come  home  to  her,  had 
perhaps  assumed,  in  her  imagination,  an  even  more 
menacing  aspect  than  the  reality  warranted. 

How  often  she  had  scanned  his  face  anxiously, 
especially  after  some  evening  when  he  had  returned 
home  later  than  usual,  and  had  longed  to  utter  a 
word  of  warning,  to  give  him  some  friendly  counsel 
from  the  wisdom  of  her  riper  years,  and  had  been 
held  in  check  by  the  stern  barrier  of  sex.  Even 
now,  as  she  rose  from  her  seat  and  set  about  the 
business  of  dressing,  she  gave  a  slight  sigh,  remem- 
bering that  she  had  not  heard  his  key  in  the  lock 
the  previous  night.  "He  must  have  been  very  late," 
she  thought. 

A  little  after  nine  she  descended  the  stairs,  clad 
in  a  gown  of  thin  grey  material,  which  fitted  her 
beautiful  figure  to  perfection  and  rustled  as  she 
moved,  one  hand  holding  her  letters  and  her  skirts, 
the  fingers  of  the  other  lightly  touching  the  rail 
of  the  balusters.  The  breakfast-table,  when  she 
reached  it,  made  an  inviting  display  of  china  and 
silver  and  white  napery,  but  the  room  was  unten- 


THE  YOKE 

anted.  She  sat  down  behind  the  coffee-pot  and 
poured  out  a  cup.  A  second  place  was  laid  at  the 
other  side  of  the  round  table;  and,  after  waiting  a 
while,  she  rose  and  lifted  the  covers  that  stood  in 
front  of  it,  helped  herself  to  a  whiting,  and  then 
took  up  the  dishes  and  placed  them  carefully  in 
the  hearth.  After  that  she  resumed  her  seat, 
propped  up  the  Daily  Telegraph  on  the  coffee-pot, 
and  started  her  solitary  meal. 

Presently  a  maid  entered  with  buttered  toast. 

"You  had  better  go  and  knock  at  Mr  Heelas's 
door,  Mary,"  she  said  to  her.  "I  think  he  can't 
have  heard  the  gong." 

"He  wasn't  in  his  room,  ma'am,  when  I  took 
his  tea,"  said  the  maid. 

For  a  moment  Angelica's  heart  stopped  beating. 
Then  she  said  quite  calmly:  "He  has  gone  out 
very  early.  Did  he  leave  any  message  ?" 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  the  maid.  "I  don't  think 
he  came  in  last  night  at  all,"  she  added. 

Angelica  turned  the  paper  and  folded  it  to  her 
satisfaction.  "He  must  have  stayed  with  Mr 
Grahame,"  she  said.  "Mary,  the  blue  room  must 
be  got  ready,  please.  Mr  and  Mrs  Cunningham 
will  be  here  on  Thursday." 

18 


THE  YOKE 

The  maid  went  out  and  closed  the  door  quietly. 
Then  Angelica  rose — she  had  no  further  appetite 
— and  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  there,  with 
her  white  hands  clasped  behind  her.  Every  now 
and  then,  as  she  moved  them  spasmodically,  the 
firelight  set  a  diamond  gleaming. 

And  so  it  had  come !  Of  course,  she  had  known 
it  must  come.  And  yet.  .  .  .  She  stood  a  long 
time  at  the  window,  and  after  a  while  a  tear 
dropped  unheeded  on  the  plant  beneath  her. 


CHAPTER  II 

"AND  let  this  be  a  warning  to  you,"  concluded 
the  magistrate,  "to  behave  in  the  future  like  re- 
spectable citizens,  and  not  like  young  hooligans. 
You  are  discharged." 

The  two  young  men  buttoned  their  overcoats 
closely  over  their  evening  clothes,  took  their  crush 
hats,  and  walked  out  of  the  dock  and  the  court, 
amid  a  faint  murmur,  in  part  suggestive  of  ap- 
plause, in  part  of  dissent.  They  proceeded  for 
some  distance  in  silence.  It  was  not  until  they 
had  turned  into  the  Strand  and  become  conscious 
that  the  passers-by  neither  knew  nor  cared  whence 
they  had  come,  that  their  eyes  met.  Then  one  of 
them — the  fat  and  burly  one — burst  out  laughing: 
a  genuine,  hearty  peal  of  boyish  mirth. 

"Well,  I  don't  see  much  to  laugh  at,  Grahame," 
said  his  companion,  who  was  not  so  tall  but  better 
built,  albeit  there  was  a  lurking  smile  behind  his 
own  handsome  features. 

"All's  well  that  ends  well,"  said  Grahame. 

"Has  it  all  ended  well?"  said  the  other.  The 
20 


THE  YOKE 

smile  was  still  hovering  in  his  frank  eyes.  -  "I  can't 
turn  up  at  Chambers  in  dress  clothes,"  he  added, 
and  the  laugh  came  right  out. 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  replied  his  friend. 
"You'll  have  to  go  home  and  send  a  wire  that 
you're  ill  or  something.  They'll  get  through  a  day 
all  right  without  you,  Heelas." 

"I  can't  do  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I'm  not  ill,"  said  Heelas;  "uncom- 
monly well,  thank  you." 

There  was  no  priggish  intention  in  his  tone  to 
reprove  his  friend.  It  was  merely  a  frank  state- 
ment of  a  fact. 

Nevertheless,  Grahame  wished  he  had  not  voiced 
the  proposition.  He  covered  that  private  sen- 
timent, however,  with  a  good-natured  smile. 
"Then  you  must  come  to  my  rooms  and  borrow 
a  change,"  he  said.  "That's  the  only  thing  I  can 
suggest." 

He  himself  was  reading  for  the  army,  and 
occupied  a  pair  of  comfortably-furnished  rooms  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Cambridge  Circus;  a  dis- 
trict, to  be  sure,  rather  inconveniently  removed 
from  his  coach's  residence,  but  central,  in  his  own 

21 


THE  YOKE 

pleasantly  indefinite  phrase,  "for  other  things"; 
the  "other  things"  including,  as  his  friends  some- 
what unkindly  reminded  him,  after  the  previous 
night's  exploit,  a  reasonable  accessibility  to  Bow 
Street. 

Heelas  gratefully  accepted  his  offer;  and  then, 
seeing  the  Charing  Cross  telegraph-office,  was  re- 
minded— not  for  the  first  time,  nor  the  second,  since 
his  encounter  with  the  police — of  Angelica.  "I 
must  send  her  a  wire,"  he  said.  His  brow  clouded. 
"I  wish  this  hadn't  happened,  Grahame.  What 
silly  jackanapes  we  were  to  attempt  that  rescue !" 

"Oh,  we  couldn't  have  left  the  other  fellows," 
said  Grahame.  "We  should  never  have  been  able 
to  look  ourselves  in  the  face  again." 

"Pretty  difficult  to  do  that,  as  it  is,"  said  Heelas. 
"What  became  of  the  girls?" 

"They  got  off,  too.  We  were  out  of  luck. 
That's  all.  Never  mind;  it's  an  experience.  Now 
it's  over,  I'm  not  sorry." 

"I  'am,"  said  Heelas,  thinking  of  Angelica. 
"After  all,"  he  added,  "I  don't  much  care  for 
women  of  that  type.  I  suppose  no  one  does.  It's 
easy  and  pleasant  in  a  way,  but  one  feels  it's  a 
descent  to  talk  to  them." 

22 


THE  YOKE 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Grahame.  "Everything 
is  a  descent,  except  going  to  work  and  coming  home 
again,  and  reading  the  evening  paper,  and  talking 
to  one's  people  about  the  next-door  neighbours,  and 
going  to  bed  and  getting  up.  That's  the  kind  of 
life  I  should  lead  if  I  were  made  of  skim  milk  and 
plaster  of  paris." 

"Yes,"  said  Heelas,  reflectively,  as  he  went  into 
the  telegraph-office;  "I  suppose  that's  it." 

"Hang  it!"  he  exclaimed,  stopping  in  the  door- 
way and  turning  almost  angrily,  "if  that's  the  life 
we  were  really  intended  for,  why  weren't  we  made 
of  skim  milk?  I  should  have  no  objection  to  it 
personally,  not  the  least.  But  I  object  to  be  made 
of  what  I  am  and  to  be  asked  to  pretend  it  is  skim 
milk." 

Therein  he  was  expressing  unconsciously — for 
there  was  no  particular  application  of  the  words  in 
his  mind — the  resentment  which  is  felt,  some  time 
or  other,  by  every  healthy  and  sound-minded  young 
man  against  a  social  order  so  incompatible  with 
natural  impulse  as  to  compel  him  to  do  things  he 
feels  to  be  beneath  him. 

Heelas  announced  to  Angelica  that  he  was  safe 
and  sound  and  would  be  home  to  dinner,  and  then 

23 


THE  YOKE 

went  on  with  Grahame  to  his  chambers.  These 
were  on  the  third  floor;  and  their  furnishing  ex- 
pressed, primarily  and  emphatically,  comfort ;  some 
taste,  a  little  art,  but  chiefly  solid  comfort.  Gra- 
hame allowed  it  to  be  known,  when  a  statement  of 
his  views  on  the  subject  appeared  to  be  called  for, 
that  chairs  which  were  made  to  look  at  were 
strongly  repugnant  to  his  soul.  Accordingly,  in 
the  small  space  of  the  sitting-room,  there  were  two 
capacious  easy-chairs  and  a  wide  settee,  upholstered 
in  dark  green  tapestry.  There  was  a  warm  carpet 
on  the  floor,  bright  fire-irons  and  a  bright  fire. 
The  plain  green  walls  were  hung  with  a  few  col- 
oured sporting  prints  and  some  well-executed 
French  mezzotints,  representing  the  undraped  fe- 
male form  in  varying  postures.  The  mantel  held 
ash-trays  and  ladies'  portraits,  and  the  small  side- 
board a  spirit-stand  with  a  syphon  and  glasses  be- 
side it. 

"Have  a  pick-me-up?"  said  the  owner,  pointing 
to  the  latter. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Heelas,  almost  with  disgust. 

"Half  a  jiffy,  then,  and  I'll  find  you  some  tog- 
gery." 

He  went  into  an  adjoining  room,  while  Heelas 
24 


THE  YOKE 

seated  himself  in  one  of  the  capacious  chairs  and 
listlessly  surveyed  the  familiar  apartment.  He  was 
an  exceptionally  good-looking  youth  and  utterly 
unconscious  of  it.  Perhaps  the  latter  character- 
istic was  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  quietly 
but  decidedly  shy  of  the  society  of  ladies.  Young 
ladies  especially  he  found  particularly  overpower- 
ing, and  he  avoided  their  propinquity  almost  to  the 
point  of  discourtesy.  To  a  young  man  of  the  age 
of  Maurice  Heelas,  unless  he  is  remarkably  com- 
placent, there  is  something  in  the  atmosphere  sur- 
rounding a  young  lady  which  inspires  a  wholesome 
awe :  she  seems  so  wonderfully  dressed,  so  much  at 
her  ease,  in  a  way  so  old;  he  feels  she  must  neces- 
sarily be  vain  and  supercilious,  and  that  she 
would  regard  him,  at  best,  as  merely  experimental 
matter. 

The  only  woman  with  whom  Maurice  came  at 
all  frequently  in  contact  was  Angelica.  She  saw 
his  good  looks  and  admired  them  whole-heartedly. 
She  was  fain  to  admit,  in  her  inmost  soul,  that  he 
was  a  finer  animal  even  than  his  father.  But  she 
admired  in  a  far  greater  degree  his  perfect  natural- 
ness, and  was  careful  not  to  endanger  that  by  any 
hint  on  her  part  of  his  personal  endowment.  All 

25 


THE  YOKE 

she  had  done  was  to  persuade  him  to  part  his  hair 
in  the  middle,  instead  of  at  the  side.  It  fell  over 
his  temples  in  two  loose  dark  brown  wisps,  and 
gave  a  distinction  to  his  straight  and  regular,  but 
still  boyish,  features  which  they  might  otherwise 
have  lacked. 

Grahamc  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  with  a  morn- 
ing suit  over  his  arm.  He  was  a  round-faced,  sol- 
idly built,  cheerful  specimen  of  the  genus  Briton; 
lazy  and  easy-going,  but  with  plenty  of  native  wit 
in  his  healthy  constitution. 

He  laid  the  clothes  carefully  over  the  backs  of 
two  chairs.  "It's  a  suit  I  grew  out  of  a  year  ago," 
he  announced,  tenderly  smoothing  a  crease  in  the 
coat-tail.  "Nuisance  that  one  will  fill  out.  I  like 
the  pattern  of  those  trousers — always  did.  Rather 
a  neat  thing,  don't  you  think  so,  Heelas?"  He 
held  out  the  approbated  garment  for  closer  inspec- 
tion. "If  old  Kenyon  asks  you  for  the  name  of 
your  tailor,  you  can  say  it's  Humphrey,  Jermyn 
Street,  and  he  won't  find  a  better  man  in  Lon- 
don." 

"Old  Kenyon,"  it  may  be  remarked  parenthet- 
ically, was  the  eminent  barrister  to  whom  Heelas 
paid  daily  visits. 

26 


THE  YOKE 

The  latter  duly  commended  the  apparel  put  at 
his  disposal,  and  then  hastily  donned  it  in  place  of 
his  own. 

"There's  no  hurry,  is  there?"  said  his  host,  when 
this  process  was  completed. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  later  than  necessary,"  said 
Heelas.  "Of  course  I'm  hopelessly  behind  time 
as  it  is." 

Grahame  had  ensconced  himself  comfortably  in 
one  of  the  big  arm-chairs  and  lighted  a  pipe. 
"By-the-bye,"  he  said,  "this  will  get  into  the  papers, 
of  course?" 

"Rather!  They  would  cram  it  in  if  they  had 
to  leave  out  a  leading  article  to  find  space." 

"That's  a  nuisance,"  said  the  occupant  of  the 
arm-chair.  "It  wouldn't  do  for  the  Mater  to  see 
it.  She  has  queer,  old-fashioned  notions,  and  it 
would  upset  her.  I  might  wire  to  Cecil  to  tell 
her  to  hide  the  sheet.  But  then  the  Mater  would 
see  the  telegram,  and  want  to  know  what  was  in  it, 
and  that  would  make  it  a  certainty."  He  medi- 
tated a  moment.  "Suppose  I  shall  have  to  chance 
it.  It's  a  nuisance,  though.  I  wouldn't  hurt  her 
on  any  account." 

He  relapsed  into  pensive  gloom;  and  then  sud- 
27 


THE  YOKE 

denly  brightened.  "Look  here,  Heelas,"  he  said, 
"you've  often  promised  to  spend  a  week-end  with 
me  at  Haslemere.  Come  this  week.  There's 
nothing  to  do.  But  you  would  help  to  smooth 
down  perturbation,  if  anything  got  but.  You  see, 
you've  such  a  quiet  and  respectable  look;  there's 
nothing  rakish  about  you,  Heelas." 

Maurice  laughed.  "It's  awfully  good  of  you," 
he  began. 

"No,  it's  not.  Of  course  I  know  it  would  be  a 
nuisance.  But  just  to  help  me  through." 

Heelas  hesitated.  He  had  no  adequate  excuse; 
but  his  mind  went  in  search  of  one,  as  it  invari- 
ably did  in  the  face  of  an  invitation,  especially  if  it 
involved  a  meeting  with  ladies.  He  remembered 
Grahame's  sister,  Cecil,  as  a  girl  of  fourteen,  and 
his  arithmetic  pointed  to  the  probability  that  at 
the  present  moment  she  would  be  sufficiently  over- 
whelming. The  two  families  had  at  one  time  been 
neighbours  in  Cumberland  Square;  but  six  years 
ago,  after  the  death  of  the  father,  the  Grahames 
had  removed  to  Haslemere;  since  which  time,  ex- 
cept for  the  friendship  of  Christopher  Grahame  and 
Maurice,  the  households  had  almost  lost  touch  with 
one  another. 

28 


THE  YOKE 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  desert  Angelica,"  Heelas  said 
at  last,  rather  lamely. 

"It  would  only  be  for  a  couple  of  days.  Or 
bring  her  with  you.  The  Mater  would  be  de- 
lighted." 

"There  would  be  a  difficulty  about  leaving  the 
house,  I  expect.  The  servants,  you  know,  and  that 
sort  of  thing."  He  clung  desperately  to  Angelica. 

Grahame  was  too  good-natured  to  be  offended, 
though  he  saw  that  his  friend  was  wriggling  shame- 
fully. He  thought  it  was  disinclination  to  face  the 
Police  Court  episode;  which,  to  do  Maurice  justice, 
was  not  the  case.  He  let  him  down  lightly. 
"Well,  think  it  over,"  he  said. 

Heelas  cheerfully  agreed  to  do  that.  He  had 
promised  to  "think  over"  an  invitation  before,  and 
knew  from  experience  that  it  didn't  necessarily,  or 
even  usually,  involve  eventual  acceptance.  He 
passed  Grahame  the  newspaper  which  that  gentle- 
man asked  for,  to  save  him  rising  from  his  com- 
fortable posture,  and  then  set  off  briskly  for  the 
Temple. 

He  returned  six  hours  later  and  resumed  his  own 
clothes.  Grahame  was  out,  probably  at  some  point 
on  his  self-imposed  daily  pilgrimage  from  Bays- 

29 


water,  but  Heelas  readily  found  what  he  wanted. 
Afterwards  he  betook  himself  to  the  Underground 
Railway  at  Charing  Cross  and  entered  a  District 
train.  He  left  it  at  South  Kensington  Station  and 
walked  a  little  way  down  the  Brompton  Road,  pres- 
ently turning  into  Cumberland  Square — a  spacious, 
orderly,  tree-embowered  enclosure,  very  bright  and 
fresh  just  now  with  soft  spring  tints. 

There  was  a  central  space  of  shrubbery,  green 
lawn  and  gravel  path,  jealously  guarded  by  high 
railings  and  locked  gates.  A  large  church  occupied 
the  east  side,  fronted  by  a  leafy  churchyard,  with 
a  vicarage  garden  at  the  back.  On  the  north  and 
south  sides  were  substantially-built,  grey  residences, 
each  with  a  small,  neatly-kept  railed  garden-space 
in  front  of  it.  Here  and  there,  on  the  south  side, 
the  said  garden-spaces  were  crowded  with  agents' 
"To  let"  boards,  jostling  one  another  for  promi- 
nence— somewhat  to  the  detriment,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, of  the  general  effect  of  prosperity  and  sub- 
stance. The  houses  on  the  west  side,  facing  the 
church,  were  of  red  brick  and  more  modern.  Also 
they  lacked  the  gardens  (and  the  boards) . 

An  atmosphere  of  dignified  calm  rested  upon  the 
square.  There  were  no  little  boys  interrupting  its 

30 


THE  YOKE 

peace;  the  tradesmen's  carts  drew  up  at  the  area 
gates  only  at  well-ordered  times  and  without  un- 
necessary clatter.  At  each  of  the  four  corners  was 
a  neat  iron  tablet  bearing  the  words, — 


ORGAN  Music  AND  OTHER  STREET 
NOISES  ARE  STRICTLY  PROHIBITED 
IN  THIS  SQUARE. 


Even  without  such  prohibition,  one  would 
scarcely  have  conceived  even  a  street  noise  suffi- 
ciently audacious  to  invade  its  cultured  precincts. 

Angelica's  house  was  almost  in  the  middle  of 
those  of  red  brick  on  the  west  side.  As  Maurice 
approached  it,  he  was  aware  that  his  heart  was 
beating  faster  than  it  was  normally  entitled  to  beat. 
He  suddenly  steadied  his  rather  rapid  rate  of  pro- 
gression and  went  on  more  sedately.  He  paused 
for  a  moment  before  the  polished  front  door, 
painted  a  dark  green  and  shining  with  brass  work. 
Then  he  took  his  latch-key  from  his  pocket  and 
quietly — quite  quietly — let  himself  in. 


CHAPTER  III 

USUALLY,  if  Angelica  did  not  meet  him  in  the 
hall,  at  least  she  gave  him  a  hail.  To-night  there 
was  no  sound,  no  Angelica.  Maurice  had  not 
thought  about  his  clothes  during  the  journey  home, 
but  now  he  became  again  acutely  conscious  of  them, 
particularly  of  his  soiled  and  disordered  shirt-front 
and  his  muddy  boots.  As  he  hung  up  his  hat  and 
overcoat,  he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was 
doing  so  in  the  customary  manner,  without  any 
attempt  to  avoid  a  rude  disturbance  of  the  pre- 
vailing silence.  But  when  he  went  upstairs  to  his 
room,  he  knew  that  he  was  walking  stealthily,  for 
he  realised  for  the  first  time  that  his  boots  creaked. 
So  did  Angelica,  as  she  sat  in  the  drawing-room. 

Maurice  changed  his  shirt,  removed  his  boots, 
and  generally  repaired  his  attire.  Then  he  pre- 
sented himself  in  the  drawing-room.  Angelica  was 
seated  before  the  fire  with  a  book  on  her  knee. 
She  did  not  rise  when  he  entered;  but  she  looked 
up  and  there  was  even  a  smile  on  her  face.  But  it 

32 


THE  YOKE 

clearly  came  there  as  the  result  of  an  effort.  And 
she  did  not  speak. 

Maurice  would  have  given  his  hope  of  the  Bench 
to  have  been  able  to  live  the  previous  night  over 
again:  not  from  a  selfish  shrinking  from  the  re- 
straint of  the  present  position,  but  because  he  saw 
that  he  had  brought  her  real  pain.  For  a  moment 
an  impulse  came  over  him  to  throw  himself  at  her 
feet  and  beg  her  forgiveness.  But  he  was  not 
naturally  demonstrative,  and  the  moment  passed. 
He  walked  up  to  the  fireplace  and  stood  with  his 
back  to  it. 

"I  sent  you  a  telegram,  Angelica,"  he  said. 
"Did  you  get  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "It  was  thoughtful  of  you, 
Maurice.  I  was  anxious.  You  didn't  say  where 
you  had  been  ?" 

"It  was  rather  difficult,"  said  Maurice.  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  added,  a  little  whimsi- 
cally: "I  couldn't  put  in  a  telegram  that  I'd  spent 
the  night  in  a  police-station." 

"What!" 

The  tone  and  the  look  expressed  something  for 
which  Maurice  was  totally  unprepared.  It  was 
not  horror ;  it  was  not  repugnance ;  it  was  joy.  The 

33 


THE  YOKE 

listlessness  had  fallen  from  her;  she  was  sitting  up 
in  the  chair,  alert  and  bright-eyed. 

"What?"  she  repeated. 

"In  a  police-station,"  said  Maurice  again,  speak- 
ing tentatively,  rather  fearful  that  the  bald  and 
isolated  phrase  would  destroy  the  unlooked-for 
effect. 

The  book  slipped  from  Angelica's  lap,  and  she 
sprang  at  him  and  caught  him  by  the  shoulders 
and  kissed  him  first  on  one  cheek  and  then  on  the 
other. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  cried. 

Maurice  was  lost  in  a  maze;  but  he  accepted 
cheerfully  the  unexpected  good  which  the  gods 
seemed  determined  to  shower  upon  him.  Then  the 
whimsical  side  struck  him. 

"It's  not  as  comfortable  as  the  Cecil,"  he  re- 
marked drily. 

Angelica  bent  down  and  poked  the  fire.  Not 
that  it  required  poking,  but  that  she  felt  the  need 
of  some  outlet  for  the  superabundant  energy  surg- 
ing up  in  her. 

"Poor  boy!" — prod.  "Did  they  put  you  in  a" 
—prod— "cell?" 

How  unsatiable  is  human  nature.  A  few  min- 
34 


THE  YOKE 

utes  earlier  Maurice  would  have  been  relieved  be- 
yond measure  to  know  that  Angelica  could  take 
his  escapade  so  lightly.  Now  he  was  beginning  to 
feel  distinctly  aggrieved  that  his  sufferings  elicited 
so  little  sympathy. 

"No,"  he  said,  "they  drew  the  line  at  that.  We 
spent  the  night  in  a  sort  of  office." 

"Who's  'we'  ?     Christopher  Grahame?" 

"Yes.  It  was  no  more  his  fault  than  mine, 
Angelica,"  he  went  on  rapidly.  "I  was  every  bit 
as  much  to  blame — perhaps  more." 

"Oh,  I  don't  object  to  Chris,  my  dear,"  said 
Angelica.  "I  think  you  might  have  many  worse 
companions.  He's  a  nice  boy.  I  like  him." 

"I'm  awfully  glad,"  said  Maurice,  brightening 
with  genuine  pleasure.  "You  know,  I  always 
thought  you  imagined  he  was  rather — oh — go- 
ahead." 

"He  is  rather  lazy,"  said  Angelica.  "That  is 
his  chief  fault.  Unless  he  docs  more  work  he 
will  be  ploughed  for  Sandhurst,  and  that  would  be 
hard  for  his  mother.  I  don't  think  they  are  very 
well  off,  and  she  is  making  an  effort  to  get  him  into 
the  army." 

"Oh,  he'll  pull  through  all  right,"  said  Maurice, 

35 


THE  YOKE 

with  confidence.  "He  does  much  more  work  than 
he  wants  one  to  think,  fhe  last  person  he  would 
like  you  to  meet  would  be  his  coach,  because  he 
would  give  him  too  good  a  character.  The  only 
thing  that  worried  him  about  this  affair  was  the 
thought  that  some  account  of  it  might  reach  his 
mother  and  upset  her." 

Angelica  stood  up  again.  There  was  something 
silken  in  her  skirts  which  rustled  when  she  moved. 
"Well,  tell  me  about  it,"  she  said  lightly.  "What 
mischief  had  you  been  getting  into  ?  And  are  you 
free  now  or  on  bail?" 

"Of  course  I'm  free,"  said  Maurice,  quite  hurt. 
"Angelica!" 

"It  was  a  mistake?" 

"Oh,  no."  He  fell  back  a  little  precipitately 
upon  his  main  position.  "There's  no  doubt  we 
were  in  the  wrong.  Some  fellows  were  down  from 
Oxford,  and  they  got  rowdy  outside  the  Empire, 
and  the  police  interfered.  We  tried  to  rescue  them. 
The  rest  got  away.  Angelica — I'm  awfully  sorry 
— we  had  had  too  much  to  drink." 

Angelica  laughed,  actually  laughed.  "And 
so  it  was  a  real  old-fashioned  fight.  What  was 
it  you  used  to  call  it  at  Harrow — a  mill  ?  Let  me 

36 


THE  YOKE 

look  at  you  and  see  if  there  are  any  scars  of  battle?" 
She  turned  him  round  to  the  lamp.  "Yes,  there's 
a  lump  there" — she  laid  a  slender  forefinger  on  the 
neighbourhood  of  his  cheek-bone — "and  a  scratch 
there.  You  are  not  discredited,  old  boy;  but  you'll 
live  to  fight  another  day." 

The  gong  had  sounded  while  she  was  speaking. 
She  placed  an  arm  in  his  and  pressed  it  happily. 
Then  she  picked  up  her  skirts  with  the  other  hand, 
and  they  went  gaily  down  to  dinner  together. 

In  the  calm  provided  by  the  meal  Maurice  ar- 
rived, without  much  difficulty,  at  a  consciousness 
of  that  which  Angelica  had  feared  of  him,  in  con- 
trast with  which  his  actual  escapade  had  seemed 
so  trifling.  The  knowledge  troubled  him,  and  he 
fell  more  and  more  into  silence.  Angelica,  on  her 
part,  was  not  much  inclined  to  talk.  The  misery 
she  had  suffered  from  the  fancy  of  some  ill-con- 
sidered and  perilous  lapse  on  his  part,  and  the 
relief  with  which  she  had  hailed  what  was,  after 
all,  a  serious  piece  of  folly,  had  shown  her  how 
deeply  his  welfare  was  imbedded  in  her  heart. 
She  was  making  up  her  mind  to  break  through 
that  barrier  of  sex  which  had  held  her  silent  for 
so  many  years.  She  could  no  longer  endure  to  sit 

37 


THE  YOKE 

quietly  and  wait  for  that  which,  in  the  circum- 
stances of  his  present  environment  and  complete 
freedom  from  restraint,  seemed  well-nigh  inevit- 
able, without  making  some  effort  to  prevent  it. 

She  looked  across  at  him,  as  he  bent  over  his 
plate,  peeling  an  orange :  handsome,  very  boyish, 
very  fresh,  all  unconscious,  as  it  seemed  to  her, 
of  that  black  cloud  of  sin  and  suffering  and  degrada- 
tion which  hung  over  fair  youth ;  and  her  thoughts 
found  silent  expression,  now  for  his  sake,  in  the 
yearning  within  her  which  was  never  subdued: 
"If  only  his  father  had  lived!" 

But  she  did  not  speak  until  they  had  left  the 
table  and  betaken  themselves  to  a  cosily-furnished 
room  at  the  back  of  the  house,  called  for  distinc- 
tion the  "morning-room,"  but  used  chiefly  in  the 
evenings,  when  they  were  alone.  Its  principal 
contents  were  two  or  three  wicker-work  chairs,  a 
small  table  and  a  Chesterfield  couch,  arranged  in 
something  of  a  circle  about  the  fireplace,  two  oil- 
lamps,  burning  under  crimson  shades,  a  wide 
Sheraton  bookcase,  filled  with  brightly-covered, 
readable-looking  backs,  and  a  large  and — it  must 
be  confessed — somewhat  untidy  writing-desk. 

The  latter  was  Maurice's.  When  he  felt  lazy, 
38 


THE  YOKE 

he  made  up  his  mind  to  take  its  disorder  seriously 
in  hand  on  the  following  day,  and,  when  he  felt 
energetic,  did  something  better  worth  his  time.  To- 
night his  mood  rather  inclined  to  the  former  qual- 
ity. He  lighted  a  pipe,  took  a  current  magazine 
from  a  shelf,  and  settled  himself  comfortably  to 
read  it.  Angelica  had  already  occupied  a  chair 
beneath  one  of  the  lamps,  with  some  fancy-work. 

"Maurice,"  she  said,  "will  you  let  me  ask  you 
a  question?" 

"As  many  as  you  like,"  said  Maurice,  dropping 
his  magazine  and  smiling  at  her. 

"It's  not  an  ordinary  one;  it's  rather  delicate 
and  personal — rather  difficult  to  ask." 

Maurice's  expression  changed.  He  looked  at 
her  wonderingly,  and  with  a  little  surprise.  "I'll 
answer  it  if  I  can,"  he  said. 

Angelica  hesitated  for  words.  "Up  to  now," 
she  said,  slowly,  "up  to  now  you  have  been  what 
is  called  'straight'?" 

Maurice  flushed  deeply,  and  turned  his  face  to 
the  fire  in  front  of  him.  He  had  all  the  bashful- 
ness  of  youth,  and  he  was  supersensitive.  The 
mention  of  such  a  subject  by  a  woman  appeared 
to  him  to  border  on  indelicacy. 

39 


THE  YOKE 

"Yes,  I  have,"  he  answered,  almost  sharply; 
then  paused,  and  added:  "That  would  have  been 
an  uncommonly  awkward  question  to  answer,  if  I 
couldn't  have  given  you  that  reply." 

"You  wouldn't  have  lied?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Would  you,  Maurice?" 

"No,  I  suppose  I  shouldn't.  But  still,"  he  per- 
sisted, "I  don't  think  it  was  quite  fair." 

She  crossed  to  the  chair  next  him,  and  took  his 
hand.  "Don't  be  cross  with  me,  Maurice,"  she 
said  softly.  "You  don't  know  what  it  means  to 
me.  You  don't  know  what  I've  gone  through  to- 
day on  your  account." 

Maurice  looked  at  her  earnest  face,  into  those 
deep,  trustable  grey  eyes.  Then  he  remembered 
her  attitude  and  expression  when  he  first  entered 
the  drawing-room,  and  his  conscience  struck  him. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  simply  said.     And  he 
returned  the  pressure  of  her  hand. 
,      "You  know,  dear,"  Angelica  went  on,  "I  hope 
you  know  the  risks  and  dangers  of  a  great  city  like 
London?" 

He  shrank  into  his  shell  again  and  tried  to  with- 
draw his  hand,  but  Angelica  clung  to  it. 

40 


THE  YOKE 

"You  must  let  me  talk  to  you,"  she  said.  "I'm 
nearly  twice  your  age.  I've  mothered  you  since 
you  were  a  toddling  mite.  There  is  no  man  to  do 
it  for  me.  You  are  fatherless,  and  friendless  but 
for  me.  Someone  must — and  there  is  no  one  else." 

"I  don't  see  the  necessity,"  said  Maurice,  dog- 
gedly. 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  she  went  on,  without 
heeding,  "that  it  would  break  my  heart  if  anything 
happened  to  you,  anything  serious,  anything  that 
might  ruin  you  for  life." 

Maurice  made  no  response  for  a  time.  He  was 
staring  into  the  fire  and  rippling  the  edges  of  the 
magazine  with  his  thumb. 

"You  can  trust  me,  Angelica,"  he  said,  at  last. 

'To — to  refrain?"  She  hung  on  her  breath  for 
his  reply. 

"To  take  care.  Oh,  you  don't  understand,"  he 
cried,  with  sudden  excitement,  springing  up  fronV 
his  chair.  "There  are  some  things  a  man  must 
<do,  or  go  mad.  You  are  a  woman,  Angelica,  and 
you  don't  understand." 

"I  do,"  said  Angelica,  quietly.  "I  am  a  woman 
and  I  do  understand.  It  is  because  I  am  a  woman 
that  I  understand." 

41 


THE  YOKE 

The  words  carried  all  the  more  force  for  the 
simple  tone  in  which  they  were  uttered.  Maurice 
forgot  the  tempest  of  self-demand  which  had  flung 
him  from  his  seat,  stood  quite  still,  and  looked  at 
her  with  half-caught  comprehension. 

"Why  do  you  men  always  assume  a  monopoly 
of  these  human  attributes?"  Angelica  continued, 
after  a  slight  pause.  "Why  do  you  arrogate  to 
yourselves  the  sole  need  and  credit  for  self-con- 
quest?" She  was  speaking  slowly  and  distinctly, 
without  raising  her  voice.  "I  have  had  my  bat- 
tles to  fight  as  well  as  you.  ...  I  have  them 
still — "  she  suddenly  dropped  her  eyes — "for  I 
have  not  won  them  yet." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in  so  low  a  tone  that 
Maurice  hardly  caught  them,  and  a  soft  colour  came 
into  her  cheeks. 

It  was  important,  perhaps,  that  he  did  not  miss 
them,  for  they  produced  two  very  notable  and  last- 
ing effects  upon  him.  In  the  first  place,  they  im- 
pressed him  with  a  new  and  a  truer  conception  of 
women  in  general,  and  increased  his  respect  for 
them ;  and,  in  the  second,  they  enabled  him  to  rec- 
ognise that  Angelica  herself,  in  spite  of  her  grey 
hairs,  was  still  a  very  attractive  woman.  There 

42 


THE  YOKE 

is  nothing — nothing  in  this  world — which  so  surely 
brings  home  a  woman's  youth  to  the  mind,  which 
shouts  it  with  so  clear  and  cogent  a  voice,  as  the 
knowledge  that  the  fervours  and  passions  of  hu- 
manity are  still  awake  in  her. 

Except  for  the  light  colour  in  her  cheeks, 
Angelica  had  changed  in  no  outward  particular  in 
the  last  few  minutes:  the  lamplight  fell  softly  on 
her  grey  hair,  gleamed  on  her  smooth,  white 
shoulders,  and  picked  out  the  diamonds  on  her 
clasped  hands.  But  by  her  confession  she  was  re- 
pictured,  once  and  for  all,  on  Maurice's  mental 
retina.  He  saw  in  her,  for  the  first  time,  some- 
thing besides  a  foster  mother,  a  kind  guardian,  an 
amiable  and  atrophied  husk  of  what  might  have 
been,  long  ago,  before  he  was  born,  pulsating 
womanhood.  The  scales  fell  from  his  eyes  and 
she  was  transfigured  before  him;  throbbing  with 
unabated  youth,  subject  to  its  joys  and  its  pains, 
conscious  in  herself  of  that  living  fire  which  seethed 
in  his  own  veins. 

From  that  moment  there  occurred  a  subtle 
change  in  the  relationship  of  these  two.  It  was 
evidenced  by  Maurice's  very  next  action.  He  re- 
sumed his  vacated  chair,  and,  of  his  own  accord, 

43 


THE  YOKE 

took  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  He  expressed  noth- 
ing in  words,  and  for  some  minutes  there  was 
silence  between  them. 

At  last  Angelica  took  up  her  thread  again. 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me,  Maurice,"  she  said, 
"not  that  you  won't  (I  wouldn't  ask  that  of  you) 
but  that  you  will  remember  that  I  am  human,  and 
can  understand  and  sympathise  with  you,  and  that 
you  will  talk  to  me  honestly  if  you  are  tempted  to 
do  anything  rash." 

"That's  nearly  the  same  thing,  isn't  it?"  said 
Maurice.  "It  means  I  can't  go  out  at  night — 
not  alone,  that  is — or  with  Grahame  or  other  fel- 
lows." 

Angelica  thought  a  moment.  "Yes,  it  means 
that,  Maurice — without  telling  me." 

Maurice  laughed  a  little.  "I'm  to  come  and 
ask  leave  for  a  night  off?"  he  said. 

She  looked  up  and  met  his  glance  with  her  own, 
perfectly  frank,  with  irresistible  appeal  and  trust 
in  it.  "Yes,"  she  answered. 

Still  Maurice  temporised.  "That's  rather  a 
large  order,"  he  said.  "Supposing  a  man  met  me 
in  town  and  suggested  dining  there  and  going  to  a 
music-hall,  am  I  to  say  I  can't  without  leave?" 

44 


THE  YOKE 

"I  only  ask  you  to  fulfill  the  spirit,"  said 
Angelica,  simply. 

There  was  a  pause.  Maurice  rose  and  knocked 
the  ashes  from  his  pipe;  then  slowly  filled  and 
lighted  it  again.  He  did  it  with  unusual  thorough- 
ness. He  took  out  his  knife  and  scraped  away 
the  bottom  ash,  and  then  closed  it  again  with  a 
click.  Nevertheless,  during  the  process  he  had 
made  up  his  mind. 

"You  know  what  you  are  asking,  Angelica?" 
he  said. 

"I've  told  you." 

"And  you  still  ask  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well,  then;  I  give  you  my  promise.  Now 
let's  talk  of  something  else." 

He  went  to  his  desk  and  deliberately  sat  down 
with  his  back  to  her.  He  was  afraid  of  being 
thanked.  There  was  no  fear  that  Angelica  would 
make  a  fuss.  But  he  knew  that  she  would  be  very 
sweet;  and,  with  his  new-gained  knowledge,  he 
wasn't  sure  that  he  felt  up  to  meeting  her  eyes, 
if  she  looked  at  him  as  she  could  look.  So  he 
pulled  a  sheet  of  paper  towards  him  and  wrote  to 
an  imaginary  person  to  say  that  he  should  be 

45 


THE  YOKE 

pleased  to  meet  him,  as  suggested,  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  to  discuss  the  matters  that  were  outstanding 
between  them.  And  a  little  later,  when  Angelica 
wasn't  looking,  he  surreptitiously  tore  it  up  and 
dropped  it  in  the  waste-paper  basket. 

It  was  almost  an  hour  before  his  usual  time  when 
he  got  up  to  go  to  bed. 

"I'm  tired,"  he  said.  "Didn't  get  much  sleep 
last  night" — with  a  slight  laugh.  "You'll  excuse 
me,  won't  you,  Angelica  ?  Good-night." 

He  was  tired.  There  was  a  droop  about  him 
as  he  walked  slowly  to  the  door  and  out.  So  it 
seemed  to  Angelica. 

She  stood  a  few  minutes  in  front  of  the  fireplace, 
looking  down  into  the  red  glow.  .  .  .  She  had 
won  a  respite.  But,  after  all,  to  what  end?  He 
would  lead  the  man's  life.  Some  woman,  sooner 
or  later — 

Some  woman,  sooner  or  later?  'She  took  a 
breath.  Some  woman?  There  was  that  at  the 
tail  of  the  thought  which  affected  her  violently. 
The  room  reeled  and  spun.  She  dropped  suddenly 
and  heavily  into  a  chair. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MRS  CUNNINGHAM  came  down  the  hall,  moving 
her  small  person  quickly  by  dint  of  fast,  small 
steps.  She  was  slightly  short-sighted,  and  this 
gave  an  appearance  of  peering  to  her  rather  roguish 
brown  eyes. 

"You  are  quite  a  dear,"  she  said  to  Angelica, 
who  came  out  of  the  morning-room  to  meet  her, 
"quite  the  veriest  dear  in  the  world,"  and  she 
stretched  out  both  her  hands  and  put  up  her  soft 
glowing  face. 

"I  think  the  shoe  is  on  the  other  foot,"  said 
Angelica.  "It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  come.  It 
is  much  too  long  since  we  have  seen  you."  Then, 
drawing  back  and  scanning  her,  "Why,  how  well 
you  look!  I  think  matrimony  suits  you,  Maude." 

"Of  course  it  does,"  said  Maude;  "it  suits  every- 
one." She  seated  herself  without  ceremony  in  one 
of  the  wicker  chairs  in  the  morning-room.  "Or 
perhaps  I  ought  to  say  it  used  to  suit  me,"  she 
added,  laughing.  "I  suppose  I've  been  living  on 


47 


THE  YOKE 

"That  isn't  always  a  very  satisfying  diet,"  said 
Angelica,  softly.  She  closed  the  door  and  came 
to  sit  by  her  friend. 

The  latter  edged  adroitly  away  from  the 
subject  of  memories.  "No,  it  isn't,"  she  said. 
"Imagine  a  husband  whose  business  is  liable  to 
take  him  away  at  any  moment  for  six  months  at 
a  time !  I  really  wish  I  had  wasted  a  little."  She 
surveyed  her  dainty,  plump  person  with  disappro- 
val. "Then,  when  he  saw  me,  he  would  be  sorry 
perhaps.  And,  before  I  married,  I  thought  it 
wouldn't  matter  much !" 

"Neither  it  does,"  said  Angelica,  smiling.  "You 
are  much  happier  really;  you  quarrel  less  and  ap- 
preciate one  another  more." 

"We  never  quarrel,"  said  Mrs  Cunningham,  em- 
phatically. 

"Never?" 

"One  doesn't  count  small  differences  about 
quite  absurd  things,"  said  the  little  wife, 
honestly.  "For  instance,  there  was  a  hat  of 
mine — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  hear  the  details,"  said 
Angelica,  laughing.  "It's  those  quite  absurd  things 
that  make  all  the  mischief." 

48 


THE  YOKE 

"Anyhow,  we  didn't  quarrel,"  persisted  the 
matron,  sturdily. 

"You  hadn't  time,"  said  Angelica. 

Mrs  Cunningham  screwed  up  her  eyes  in  a  quaint 
little  way  of  her  own — partly  the  result  of  her 
short  sight — and  looked  closely  at  her  hostess. 
"Angelica,  you  are  becoming  quite  cynical  in — 
in—" 

"In  my  old  age?"  said  Angelica.  "Am  I? 
I  don't  think  so,  dear.  You  mustn't  take  me  too 
seriously.  What  time  do  you  expect  your  hus- 
band?" 

"He  gets  to  Charing  Cross  at  two  forty-four." 
She  hesitated.  "It's  very  silly,  Angelica,  but  I'm 
really  quite  nervous  about  meeting  him." 

"Shy?  Well,  of  course,"  said  her  hostess. 
"But  it  won't  last  long." 

"It's  not  merely  that.  There's  something  else. 
You  see,  when  he  went  away — we  had  been  married 
some  time — and  we  hoped — that — that — " 

"I  see,"  said  Angelica.  "And  the  hope  is  not 
going  to  be  fulfilled?" 

"No,"  replied  Mrs  Cunningham,  quickly,  de- 
lighted to  be  relieved  of  more  explicit  expression. 
"Isn't  it  disappointing?" 

49 


THE  YOKE 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Angelica,  suddenly. 
"How  long  were  you  married — I  mean,  before  he 
went  away?" 

"Nearly  a  year,"  said  the  representative  of  wed- 
lock; and  she  peeped  up  at  her  hostess  with  that 
quaint  contraction  of  her  features,  and  with  rather 
a  defensive  gleam  in  her  merry  brown  eyes. 

"Why,  what  were  you  doing  all  that  time?"  cried 
Angelica,  laughing. 

Mrs  Cunningham  was  adequately  shocked. 
"You  are  really  almost  indelicate,"  she  complained, 
"especially  for  a — for  a — " 

"For  an  old  maid?"  suggested  Angelica. 

"No,  no."  Yet  she  knew  she  had  only  been 
searching  for  a  less  objectionable  synonym.  "An- 
gelica"— suddenly — "why  don't  you  marry?" 

Angelica  was  about  to  put  her  off  with  a  light 
reply;  then  she  changed  her  mind  and  looked  at 
her  frankly. 

"Do  you  know,  Maude,  that  is  a  very  foolish 
question." 

"You  have  never  met  anyone  nice  enough?" 

"Indeed,  I  have;  but  none  that  could  appeal  to 
me — sufficiently.  Except,  of  course — "  She 
stopped. 

50 


THE  YOKE 

"Oh !"  said  Mrs  Cunningham,  pathetically,  "will 
you  never  outlive  that?" 

"Never,"  said  Angelica.     "I  don't  want  to." 

"But  still,"  persisted  the  little  matron,  "people 
are  sometimes  able  to  feel  again — not  quite  the 
same,  perhaps — but  very  much." 

Angelica  looked  at  the  bright,  glowing  face — at 
this  moment  full  of  solicitude  for  what  she  believed 
to  be  her  happiness.  Again  she  hesitated,  and 
again  she  decided  to  answer  her  seriously. 

"Well,  you  have  tried  matrimony  for  a  whole 
year,  Maude,"  she  said,  "to  say  nothing  of  the 
six  months  that  don't  count.  Would  you  honestly 
tell  me  that  'not  quite  the  same'  is  good  enough? 
Good  enough  to  set  one's  seal  to  a  life-long  bond?" 

Mrs  Cunningham  gave  her  earnest  consideration 
to  the  question. 

"No,  perhaps  not  in  your  case,"  she  said,  at  last; 
"but  I  think  it  is  for  people  who  have  to." 

People  who  have  to!  She  uttered  the  words  in 
a  thoroughly  matter-of-fact  tone,  as  thousands  utter 
them  daily.  She  had  no  idea  how  they  grated  on 
Angelica. 

"After  all,"  she  summed  up  reflectively,  "you 
are  very  happy.  You  have  all  you  want." 

5' 


THE  YOKE 

There  was  a  faint  suggestion  of  the  interrogative 
in  each  statement,  but  Angelica  passed  it  by. 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  there  are  people  who 
believe  they  'have  to,'  "  she  said.  "Don't  ever  let 
your  daughters  think  that,  Maude." 

"I  haven't  got  a  daughter,"  said  Maude,  dole- 
fully. "Why  did  you  remind  me  of  it  again?  I 
was  almost  forgetting." 

She  contrived  to  make  of  herself  quite  a  pathetic 
little  figure,  composed  of  a  base  of  genuine  trouble 
and  a  considerable  superstructure  of  sham.  But 
the  sham  was  of  the  flimsy  quality  which  is  not 
intended  to  deceive. 

"Are  you  really  worrying  about  it,  dear?"  said 
Angelica,  gently.  "I  don't  think  you  need.  But 
why  didn't  you  tell  him  at  once  in  one  of  your  let- 
ters?" 

"I  intended  to,"  said  Maude,  penitently;  "but 
there  was  always  such  a  lot  to  say,  and  I  forgot. 
No,  I  didn't,"  she  corrected  honestly,  "I  put  it  off. 
I  thought — oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  thought !" 

"Little  goose !  Well,  he  has  probably  forgotten 
all  about  it  by  this  time." 

Maude  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  no,  he  hasn't," 
she  said  decidedly.  "He  went  away  quite  hap- 

52 


THE  YOKE 

pily.  He  thought  it  was  quite  sure.  So  did  I." 
The  dismal  memory  took  her  hand  to  her  pocket; 
but  having  extracted  an  exquisite  little  piece  of 
cambric,  she  decided  after  all  not  to  use  it.  Only 
Angelica  was  aware  of  the  faint  but  pungent  per- 
fume which  she  always  connected  with  Maude. 
"He  would  have  been  so  proud,"  concluded  the 
latter,  stretching  the  handkerchief  from  corner  to 
corner,  as  if  to  make  sure  that  it  was  square. 

"You  mean  'pleased'  ?"  said  Angelica. 

"Yes,  pleased,  of  course;  and  proud,  too — very 
proud,"  reasserted  the  wife. 

The  distinction  was  not  worth  pursuing;  but 
Angelica's  mind  travelled  back  to  some  of  the 
tragedies,  little  and  big,  which  had  floated  across 
her  ken,  in  connection  with  parentage.  It  is  so 
easy  to  lose  all  sense  of  proportion.  Adjust  it  ac- 
curately, and  is  there  a  more  pathetic  or  ridiculous 
object  than  a  man  who  is  proud  of  having  become 
a  father?  Proud  of  having  achieved  a  feat  which, 
under  God,  is  found  perfectly  easy  of  accomplish- 
ment by  a  farmyard  rooster !  Dame  Nature,  who 
pitilessly  pursues  her  inexorable  purpose  in  laden 
slums,  through  shamed  homes  and  over  broken 
hearts,  may  well  be  conceived  to  smile  at  man's 

53 


THE  YOKE 

"pride"  in  his  share  of  her  work,  when  it  happens 
to  have  been  carried  out  with  the  pomp  and  cir- 
cumstance of  matrimony  and  in  accordance  with  his 
wishes. 

After  lunch  Mrs  Cunningham  set  off  in  fluttering 
spirits  to  meet  her  husband.  An  hour  or  two  later 
Angelica  heard  a  cab  draw  up  outside  the  house. 
There  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell  and  a  sound  of 
luggage  being  moved;  and  then  Maude  came  into 
the  drawing-room,  flushed  and  happy,  followed  by 
a  broad  and  muscular  but  rather  short  man,  with 
a  kindly  expression,  well-marked  features,  and  a 
light,  drooping  moustache.  The  disappointment 
had  evidently  been  overcome,  for  the  barometer  in 
both  their  countenances  stood  at  "set-fair." 

Angelica  rose.  "So  you  have  got  him,  Maude," 
she  said,  smiling. 

"Got  him  without  hope  of  escape,"  said  the  cap- 
tive, shaking  hands  and  laughing  cheerily  in  a 
resonant  voice  of  honest  bass.  "This  is  remark- 
ably good  of  you,  Miss  Jenour." 

Tom  Cunningham  was  an  excellent  example  of 
the  type  of  humanity  which  supplies  the  bulk  of 
modern  Britain — sincere  to  the  backbone,  strong- 
principled,  orthodox,  unimaginative.  A  nation 

54 


THE  YOKE 

might  be  built  on  much  worse  material,  but  it  has 
its  obvious  limitations.  It  is  not  the  bigot  who 
bars  the  advance  of  enlightened  ideas  in  what  are 
called  moral  questions.  He  is  transparently  what 
he  is — narrow,  noisy  and  negligible.  It  is  the 
tremendous  mass  behind  him  of  ordered  orthodox 
thought.  It  says  little,  does  little;  it  simply  is. 
It  won't  argue,  won't  be  convinced,  won't  change, 
can't  change.  We  hate  it;  we  know  its  wrong- 
headedness,  its  infinite  stupidity.  It  stands  in  our 
way  and  makes  us  rage.  But  we  admire  it,  we  are 
almost  proud  of  it,  for  its  transparent  sincerity  and 
its  magnificent  stolidity. 

Angelica  told  her  guest  that  she  was  very  pleased 
to  see  him,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  had  a  com- 
fortable journey;  to  which  he  replied  with  a 
guarded  affirmative,  and  went  on  to  relate  certain 
incidental  experiences  mildly  satirical  of  modern 
methods  of  travel.  All  of  which  came  out  in  a 
flowing,  easy  voice,  and  was  accompanied  almost 
continuously  by  his  mellow  laugh,  like  the  roll  of 
drums  behind  sonorous  wind  instruments  playing  an 
air.  Angelica  gave  due  recognition  to  these  jeux 
d'esprit,  and  then  tactfully  relieved  them  of  her 

55 


THE  YOKE 

society  by  suggesting  that  Mrs  Cunningham  should 
herself  show  her  husband  his  room. 

"It  is  quite  possible,"  she  warned  them,  "that 
dinner  may  be  dragged  forward  to  some  unconscion- 
able hour.  I  told  Maurice  to  get  theatre-tickets 
for  one  or  two  nights ;  and  as  to-night  would  be  the 
least  convenient,  he  will  probably  choose  it." 

"Oh,  really,  Miss  Jenour,"  demurred  the  man 
of  commerce,  "you  mustn't  entertain  us.  We  are 
simply  interlopers  and  very  thankful  for  a  shelter." 

"The  obligation  is  on  our  side,"  replied  Angelica, 
brightly.  "We  should  never  see  anything  at  all 
if  it  weren't  for  our  visitors.  We  are  much  too  un- 
enterprising to  go  alone." 

There  was  nothing  particularly  funny  in  the  re- 
mark. Nevertheless,  Mr  Cunningham's  rich  laugh 
floated  deprecatingly  back  to  Angelica  as  he  left  the 
room  on  his  way  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  V 

ANGELICA  took  up  some  fancy-work  and  sat  down 
before  the  fire.  She  lifted  a  black  silk  bag  lined 
with  pale  yellow  from  beside  her  chair,  and,  after 
patient  search,  extracted  from  it  the  materials  she 
required,  and  then,  having  held  her  needle  to  the 
light  and  threaded  it,  set  diligently  to  work  to 
blend  arbitrary  colours  upon  the  petals  of  an  im- 
possible flower.  The  drawing-room  was  imme- 
diately beneath  the  blue  room,  and,  as  she  worked, 
she  could  hear  footsteps  moving  in  the  room  above, 
and  the  muffled  sound  of  voices.  No  words 
were  distinguishable,  but  she  could  tell  perfectly 
plainly  when  the  man  was  speaking  and  when  the 
woman. 

Suddenly  she  started  violently  and  sat  bolt  up- 
right in  her  chair.  The  voices  were  still  an  indis- 
tinct murmur,  but  a  new  quality  had  come  into  the 
tones — a  quality  which  pierced  the  intervening  plas- 
ter and  woodwork  as  if  it  had  been  paper — a  joy- 
ous, nervous  tension.  Words  came  on  the  edge 
of  a  half-caught  breath,  especially  in  the  treble 

57 


THE  YOKE 

tones.  And  the  short  laughs  were  no  longer  quite 
spontaneous.  But  in  those  also  there  was  joy — 
deep,  underlying,  quivering  joy. 

The  effect  on  Angelica  was  electrical.  A  tremor 
swept  through  her;  all  the  blood  in  her  veins  shiv- 
ered back  to  her  heart  and  left  her  cold.  A  moment 
before  she  had  been  calmly  doing  fancy-work. 
Now — by  a  subtle,  slight  change  in  the  note  of 
barely  audible  voices — she  was  trembling  with  un- 
controllable excitement  and  agitation. 

She  could  have  spared  herself  in  a  measure — 
spared  a  temperament  strung  so  exquisitely  that 
even  so  small  an  influence  set  the  strings  tumult- 
uously  vibrating — by  leaving  the  room.  In  a 
measure  only;  for  remembrance  would  have 
called  imagination  to  its  aid  and  have  still  kept 
her  on  the  rack.  But  she  did  not  leave  the  room ; 
she  could  not;  the  electric  wires  had  been  joined, 
the  current  was  surging  through  her,  and  she  was 
utterly  in  its  grip.  On  the  contrary,  she  listened. 
She  was  incapable  of  meanness — she  never  thought 
of  it — only  her  own  storming  instincts  imperiously 
claimed  that  much  recognition.  She  was  moved 
by  something  stronger  than  herself.  This  she 
would  have;  this,  at  least,  she  would  have.  All 

58 


THE  YOKE 

the  beaten-down  nature  of  her  forty  years  of  re- 
pression found  vent  in  this  poor  outlet.  So  she 
listened — listened  with  straining  ears. 

Her  imagination  became  almost  preternaturally 
vivid.  She  saw  into  the  room  above  as  clearly  as 
if  she  had  been  standing  within  it.  The  whole 
scene  was  reproduced  in  living  colours  on  the  retina 
of  her  brain.  Every  movement,  every  sound  con- 
veyed its  accurate  meaning  to  her.  It  did  not  sur- 
orise  her  at  the  time  that  it  should  be  so — as  it  did 
in  the  retrospect — she  assumed  it  as  a  perfectly 
ordinary  faculty. 

Presently  came  a  sound  she  was  waiting  for — • 
which  she  knew  must  come.  .  .  .  But  the  pro- 
jected thought  did  nothing  to  diminish  the  effect 
of  the  thought  externalised  in  actuality.  She 
gripped  the  elbows  of  the  chair  to  steady  and  sup- 
port herself.  She  was  not  merely  trembling;  she 
was  shaken  through  and  through.  Her  blood 
seemed  to  be  staunched  at  her  heart  and  to  have 
ceased  to  flow.  She  ground  her  teeth,  but  could 
not  save  them  from  chattering.  And  though  she 
strove  to  check  it,  a  low  moan — as  from  a  child  in 
pain — was  wrung  from  her. 

This  was  actual  physical  suffering.     She  hardly 

59 


THE  JOKE 

noticed  that.  She  was  in  a  thraldom  which  made 
it  nothing.  What  gripped  her  with  passionate 
resentment  was  that  its  violence  prevented  her 
taking  further  draughts  from  the  well  whose 
bitter-sweet  waters  had  caused  it.  The  moments 
were  flying,  and  she  could  no  longer  hear.  She 
set  her  will  with  all  her  might,  and  at  last  obtained 
a  temporary  respite.  .  .  .  The  voices  had  become 
intermittent  and  monosyllabic.  She  heard  but 
for  the  briefest  moment.  Then  the  agitation 
surged  over  and  through  her  again  and  again  and 
again. 

There  were  no  further  respites.  By  the  time 
the  attack  had  spent  its  force  there  was  silence  in 
the  room  above.  For  the  space  of,  perhaps,  a 
minute,  Angelica  sat  quite  still,  her  face  pale  and 
strained,  still  trembling  slightly.  Then,  slowly, 
she  bowed  her  head  into  her  hands  and  sobbed. 
For  the  first  time  since  she  was  a  child  she  wept 
for  herself.  And  now  and  then  the  tremors  seized 
her  once  more  and  shivered  through  her,  like  squalls 
on  a  still  lake. 

She  thought  of  the  barren  past  and  the  barren 
future.  There  was  this  joy  in  the  world — for  all 

60 


THE  YOKE 

she  knew,  a  greater  than  existed  in  any  world,  now 
or  to  come — and  she  was  not  to  know  it. 

A  wave  of  bitterness  swept  over  her.  She  was 
a  maid.  There  were  thousands  of  maids  such  as 
she;  not  created  to  that  end  by  their  Maker,  but 
forced  to  be  such  by  the  conditions  of  existence 
which  man  had  set  up.  Who  had  a  right  to  say  to 
her  and  her  sisters  that  they  must  never  live  to  the 
fulness  of  their  inheritance,  must  never  eat  of  the 
tree  of  knowledge,  bitter  though  it  might  often  be, 
but  sometimes  very  sweet?  Who  had  a  right  to 
graft  upon  the  world  arbitrary  social  forms,  which 
involved  this  callous  discarding  of  the  overplus  of 
women?  For  a  man  there  was  some  relief,  a  cer- 
tain tacit  license,  objectionable  as  such,  but  still 
existing.  But  for  a  woman?  Let  her  re- 
nounce her  freedom,  let  her  give  herself  up 
wholly  and  unconditionally  into  the  keeping  and 
control  of  another;  that  irrevocable  bond,  or — 
nothing. 

Gradually  this  vehement  mood  dropped  from 
her  and  her  thoughts  ran  in  quieter  channels.  But 
the  sense  of  injustice  remained.  She  knew  it  was 
wrong  that  she  should  be  sitting  there,  demanding 
to  live  to  the  ends  of  her  womanhood,  and  be  met 

61 


THE  YOKE 

by  the  fiat  that  she  must  first  of  all  enter  into 
a  contract  which  was  possible  only  at  the  price 
of  being  false  to  her  intellect  and  her  soul, 
and  unfair  to  whomsoever  might  accept  it.  She 
knew  that  was  wrong,  because  her  instinct  told  her 
so. 

But  she  did  not  inveigh  against  Eternal  Purpose. 
Only  it  occurred  to  her  to  wonder — perhaps  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life — if  that  purpose  had  neces- 
sarily been  correctly  interpreted  by  man.  One  did 
not  give  a  child  cake  to  watch  its  poor  efforts  to 
keep  it  from  its  mouth.  Human  instincts  were 
given  us  for  some  end  beyond  supplying  an  exer- 
cise for  the  ascetic  faculties.  "If  a  thing  is  pleas- 
ant it  is  wrong."  That  appeared  to  express  the 
sum  product  of  human  endeavour  to  penetrate 
divine  intention.  One  had  grown  into  the  habit  of 
assuming  it  to  be  right.  .  .  .  Was  it?  .  .  . 
Was  it? 

Angelica  started  from  her  seat,  struck  by  the 
sudden  vigour  of  the  thought.  It  fired  her  blood 
and  quickened  her  intelligence  with  a  new  light. 
She  saw  the  false  premise,  the  distorted  conception 
of  the  Creator's  infinite  beneficence,  upon  which 
man's  dictum  was  founded. 

62 


THE  YOKE 

"What!  out  of  senseless  nothing  to  provoke 
A  conscious  something  to  resent  the  yoke 

Of  unpermitted  pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  everlasting  penalties,  if  broke ! " 

He  never  did,  and  He  never  would.  That  yoke 
is  of  man's  fashioning. 

It  has  lain  heavily  on  your  tender  neck,  Angelica. 
For  five-and-twenty  years — all  your  adult  life 
— you  have  carried  it  without  question,  as  part 
of  the  manifold  human  ills  to  which  you  were 
born.  Now  it  occurs  to  you  to  ask  "Why?" 
And  for  that — just  for  that — my  readers  are 
beginning  to  shake  their  heads  at  you ;  they  whose 
yoke  has  perhaps  been  light.  Some  of  them  have 
stopped  reading  about  you  already.  They  think 
you  are  going  to  turn  out  to  be  what  they  would 
call,  with  the  Christian  charity  that  distinguishes 
them,  a  "bad  woman."  Those  are  the  quite  im- 
maculate ones,  whose  white  robes  such-  as  you  and 
I  can  scarcely  presume  to  touch.  There  are  a  few, 
I  am  glad  to  say,  who  will  continue  to  believe  in 
you,  whatever  you  do.  But  even  they  might  not 
all  be  able — much  as  they  would  regret  it — to  go 
on  calling  upon  you.  You  see,  in  this  world  we 
have  to  be  so  careful  about  what  other  people 

63 


THE  YOKE 

may  think;  they  might  possibly  misinterpret  our 
high-minded  motives.  There  is  something  due  to 
ourselves,  you  understand;  we  must  never  forget 
ourselves. 

So  you  must  be  cautious,  dear.  Nothing  will 
your  own  sex,  at  any  rate,  less  easily  forgive  than 
the  raising,  ever  so  little,  of  that  chafing  collar. 
Married  women  and  elderly  spinsters  you  must 
particularly  beware  of.  It  is  they  whose  silence  is 
virulent,  whose  "charity"  a  careful  compound  of 
noxious  subtleties.  Perhaps  it  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at.  They  themselves  have  suffered  from 
their  sex.  They  have  known  the  struggles,  per- 
haps the  fright ;  but  with  a  little  luck,  perhaps  with- 
out, they  have  come  through  the  danger  zone. 
And  when  it  comes  to  the  turn  of  another,  don't 
they  have  their  revenge. 

I  know  a  lady  very  gentle,  very  sweet.  If  you 
should  meet  her,  you  will  agree  with  me.  One 
day  she  heard  that  a  little  maid-servant  had  been 
dimly  suspected  of  making  some  poor  tentative 
attempt  to  ease  her  neck.  The  change  in  her  was 
startling.  With  heart  and  eyes  and  voice  as  hard 
as  Pharaoh's  she  exclaimed,  "She  shouldn't  have 
been  kept  a  day."  And  yet  that  same  lady  had 


THE  YOKE 

retained  in  her  service  for  months  a  woman  known 
to  be  a  thief  and  a  liar. 

Oh,  you  matrons!  You  comfortably  married 
matrons!  Whenever  I  hear  a  remark  of  that 
sort,  I  think  of  a  temperance  lecturer  with  a  private 
bottle  of  spirits  behind  the  scenes,  with  which  to 
refresh  himself  in  the  intervals  of  his  oratory. 

Angelica  was  still  standing  by  the  window, 
whither  the  vivid  thought  which  flung  her  from  her 
seat  had  carried  her,  when  she  heard  the  door  open. 
She  turned  her  head  and  saw  Maude  enter.  An- 
gelica was  surprised  to  see  her  look  so  composed. 

But  that  is  the  miracle  of  marriage.  Men  and 
women  still  throbbing  from  passionate  scenes  can 
join  a  breakfast-party  and  talk  unconcernedly  of 
current  events.  Day  after  day  there  is  that  going 
on  in  millions  of  homes  which  stirs  human  beings 
to  their  utmost  depths,  and  yet — on  the  surface — 
non-existent.  It  is  a  very  wonderful  thing.  It  is 
not  always  understood  how  wonderful  it  is.  Here 
is  this  world  and  all  the  superficial  things  of  it,  the 
things  we  talk  about  and  work  about  and  spend 
our  lives  about;  but  underneath — hardly  recog- 
nised, hardly  hinted  at — is  the  deep  unchanging 
power  which  moves  it  all. 

65 


THE  YOKE 

Maude,  on  her  part,  however,  saw  signs  in 
Angelica  which  did  not  speak  of  composure. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  dear?"  she  asked 
anxiously.  "You  look  as  if — " 

"Do  I?"  said  Angelica.  "Perhaps  I  have. 
Is  there  any  law  which  forbids  it?"  she  asked, 
smiling. 

The  other  waited  and  studied  her  friend  through 
serious  brown  eyes. 

"Will  you  tell  me?"  she  asked.  "Can  I  help 
you?" 

"You  can't,  dear,"  said  Angelica. 

Maude  was  puzzled.  What  could  Angelica — 
Angelica  who  had  apparently  everything  she  could 
wish  for;  adequate  means,  a  comfortable  home, 
freedom  from  care,  years  that  hung  lightly  on  her, 
an  attractive  personality  and  a  sympathetic  nature 
that  made  her  universally  beloved — what  could 
Angelica  find  to  weep  about? 

"Tom  will  be  down  directly,"  she  said  presently. 
"He  is  unpacking.  We  had  such  a  lot  to  tell  each 
other." 

Angelica  said  nothing. 


66 


CHAPTER  VI 

AMONG  the  first-fruits  of  Maurice's  promise  to 
Angelica  was  an  acceptance  of  Grahame's  invita- 
tion to  spend  the  ensuing  week-end  at  Haslemcre. 
He  knew  that,  to  keep  going  on  the  new  lines,  he 
would  have  to  break  the  monotony  of  life  wher- 
ever he  saw  an  opportunity.  Moreover,  now  that 
Angelica  had  the  Cunninghams  to  keep  her  com- 
pany, he  was  denuded  of  even  the  semblance  of  an 
excuse  for  refusing. 

It  cannot  be  said,  for  all  that,  that  he  approached 
the  business  with  any  exuberance  of  spirits.  He 
looked  upon  it  very  much  in  the  sense  of  a  duty, 
due  indeed  principally  to  himself,  but  also  in  a 
minor  degree  to  Angelica  and  to  Grahame.  He 
had  strung  himself  up  to  the  point  of  undertaking 
it,  and  he  meant,  if  he  could,  to  go  through  with  it 
creditably. 

Such  was  his  condition  of  mind  as  he  sat  in  the 
railway  carriage  opposite  Grahame  and  stared  out 
of  the  window  at  the  slowly-moving  birch  woods, 

67 


THE  YOKE 

while  the  train  laboured  up  the  long  hill  from 
Guildford. 

When  a  place  has  long  been  known  by  report 
but  never  seen,  the  mind  necessarily  forms  some 
picture  of  it,  often  quite  arbitrarily,  upon  which  to 
project  its  thoughts.  So  vivid  may  this  become 
that,  even  after  the  place  has  been  actually  beheld, 
the  imagined  form  of  it  sometimes  returns  to  the 
brain  in  place  of  the  reality.  Maurice  without  the 
least  foundation  had  conceived  Mrs  Grahame's 
house  as  a  bright,  many-gabled,  lattice-windowed 
modern  building,  partly  pebble-dashed  and  sham- 
timbered,  backed  by  pine  woods  and  approached 
by  a  new  road.  Consequently,  his  ideas  needed 
considerable  reorganising  when  Grahame  led  him 
to  his  mother's  actual  residence. 

It  stood  in  the  main  street  of  the  village,  its  long 
side  flush  with  the  pavement — so  flush  that  the 
lower  windows  demanded  a  series  of  short  muslin 
blinds,  to  screen  the  rooms  from  the  casual  eyes  of 
pedestrians.  It  was  neatly  painted  and  cared  for, 
though  the  old  red  brick  showed  some  signs  of 
decay.  The  side  facing  the  street  was  prolonged 
by  a  high  brick  wall,  which  guarded  a  leafy  garden. 
This  garden  extended  in  an  L  shape  to  the  back  of 

68 


THE  YOKE 

the  house,  where  there  was  an  open  view  of  the 
heather  and  pines.  At  the  point  where  the  wall 
joined  the  building  proper,  the  former  was  pierced 
by  a  narrow  archway,  blocked  with  a  green  door. 
You  passed  through  this  and  along  a  short  flagged 
path  to  the  main  entrance,  which  faced  the  garden 
through  a  lattice  porch. 

On  entering  the  house,  Maurice  was  met  by 
an  unexpected  indulgence.  There  were  no  im- 
mediate signs  of  his  hostesses.  Grahame  seemed 
to  be  equally  gratified,  though  for  a  different 
reason. 

"The  old  people  may  be  asleep,"  he  said  below 
his  breath.  "If  we  could  manage  to  see  Cecil  alone 
for  a  moment  we  should  get  to  know  what  line 
to  take." 

He  cautiously  opened  the  library  door  and 
looked  inside.  Finding  the  room  empty  he  was 
about  to  close  it  again,  when  he  was  struck  by 
a  thought  which  took  him  up  to  the  newspaper 
rack.  He  ran  his  hand  over  three  Queens,  the  last 
Christmas  number  of  the  Graphic,  several  Quivers, 
and  innumerable  copies  of  Weldon's  Practical 
Needlework.  With  a  slight  laugh  at  this  unprofit- 
able find  he  came  away  and  looked  into  the 


THE  YOKE 

dining-room.  That  also  was  empty.  Then  he 
crossed  the  hall  and,  with  even  greater  precaution, 
peeped  into  the  drawing-room.  He  pushed  his 
head  further  inside  and  looked  round  the  corner. 
Then  he  flung  the  door  wide  open. 

"All  out,  apparently,"  he  said,  resuming  his 
ordinary  tone.  "Well,  come  in,  Heelas." 

He  caught  sight  of  a  maid  descending  the  stairs. 
"Is  Miss  Grahame  out?"  he  said  to  her. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  maid.  "She  went  out 
about  three  o'clock  with  Mrs  Grahame  and  Miss 
Gaskell.  They  expected  to  be  back  before  you 
came,  sir." 

Grahame  turned  back  into  the  drawing-room. 
"That  means  meeting  them  all  in  a  bunch,"  he 
said  to  Heelas.  "We  must  make  the  best  of  it." 

Then,  as  the  maid  was  disappearing,  he  shouted 
again  to  her.  "Jane." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Bring  me  all  the  newspapers  that  haven't  been 
burnt." 

"All  of  them,  sir?"  said  Jane. 

She  wasn't  surprised,  neither  had  she  failed 
to  hear.  She  repeated  the  request  without  any 
reason  whatever;  an  irritating  habit  which  from 

70 


THE  YOKE 

some  men  would  have  provoked  a  sarcastic  reply. 
But  Grahame  was  not  of  that  type. 

"Yes,  every  one  of  them,"  he  said  briskly,  "and 
as  quickly  as  you  can." 

She  returned  presently  with  four  copies  of  the 
Morning  Post;  or,  rather,  with  three  and  a  portion, 
for  the  fourth  had  evidently  done  partial  duty  as  a 
fire-lighter.  There  was  also  the  previous  Satur- 
day's number  of  the  Haslemere  Gazette,  carefully 
preserved  in  the  kitchen  after  the  less  important 
organs  had  gone  the  way  of  all  newspapers. 

"Now,"  said  Grahame,  sitting  down  with  the 
papers  on  his  knee,  after  the  door  had  closed  be- 
hind Jane;  "it  was  Monday  night,  wasn't  it?  That 
would  make  it  Tuesday  morning.  So  it  would  be 
in  Wednesday's  paper."  He  went  through  the 
pile.  "Monday's — that's  no  use;  Thursday's — a 
bit  of  it — the  advertisement  sheets;  all  Friday's, 
and" — he  picked  up  the  last — "Tuesday's."  He 
looked  up  with  a  whimsical  smile. 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Heelas. 

"Look  at  them  yourself,  old  chap."  He  tossed 
him  over  the  pile.  "There  are  three  things  that 
may  have  happened  to  it,"  he  went  on  sagely; 
"Cecil  may  have  it;  the  Mater  may  have  it,  to 


THE  YOKE 

produce  quietly  when  she  thinks  it  expedient; 
or  it  may  have  been  burnt  in  the  ordinary  course. 
I  should  say  the  chances  are  about  equal  all 
round." 

He  got  up  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
one  hand  in  his  pocket,  the  other  on  his  hip,  and 
looked  down  amiably  at  Heelas,  as  the  latter  turned 
the  papers.  His  face  expressed  the  comprehensive 
good-will  which  made  his  nature  so  lovable.  The 
next  moment  he  gathered  up  the  papers  from 
Maurice's  knee  and  placed  them  under  a  couch  with 
elaborate  stealth.  There  were  voices  in  the  hall. 
He  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 

"Hello,  mother!"  Maurice  heard  him  say. 
"Frolicking  about  as  usual !  I  never  knew  anyone 
like  you." 

There  followed  a  quick  twitter  of  female  voices, 
slightly  breathless  and  expostulatory,  but  pitched 
in  a  tone — so  he  thought,  with  relief — indicating 
the  very  best  of  spirits. 

Then  came  the  expected  incursion — which 
Maurice  awaited  in  the  centre  of  the  drawing-room 
carpet,  in  an  attitude  which  he  devoutly  hoped 
might  represent,  but  which  he  was  painfully  con- 
scious did  not,  graceful  ease:  two  elderly  ladies, 

72 


THE  YOKE 

still  breathless  and  bonneted,  accompanied  by 
Grahame.  In  these  Heelas  had  no  difficulty  in 
recognising  Mrs  Grahame  and  her  sister,  Miss 
Gaskell.  Six  years  had  changed  them  very  little. 
Both  were  then,  as  now,  slight  and  brisk  and 
white-haired  (Miss  Gaskell,  as  became  a  spinster, 
perhaps  a  little  the  slighter  and  brisker  of  the  two), 
both  were  pleasant-featured.  He  was  to  learn  too, 
presently,  that  they  could  each  of  them  still  talk 
as  volubly  as  ever  upon  subjects  in  which  he  would 
experience  the  same  difficulty  as  of  yore  to  become 
absorbed. 

You  may  be  inclined  to  think,  perhaps,  that 
they  had  rather  a  slow  time  of  it  up  at  Haslemere. 
At  once  disabuse  your  mind  of  any  such  impression. 
They  were  merry,  these  elderly  ladies;  oh,  but 
they  were  giddy !  (in  a  strictly  pious  and  decorous 
way).  Dear  me,  the  tea-fights  and  the  whist- 
drives  (they  occasionally  included  a  representative 
of  the  male  sex),  the  bazaars  and  garden-parties, 
such  fun  and  frolic  as  never  was  I  And  the  good 
works  they  did  amidst  of  it  all!  Their  circle 
of  friends  was  remarkably  extensive.  Some  of 
them,  they  were  obliged  to  admit,  were  a  little 
peculiar  in  their  ways.  The  Haslemere  people,  it 

73 


THE  YOKE 

may  be  interjected,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who 
do  not  know  it,  are  the  sort  who  go  in  for  high  art 
and  the  simple  life,  and  affect  slovenly  dressing, 
and  furnish  their  houses  with  gimcrack  severity. 
But  though  our  two  ladies  did  not  omit  to  subject 
these  details  in  private  to  adequate  comment  and 
criticism,  they  prided  themselves  that  in  general 
principle  they  were  sufficiently  broad-minded  to 
glance  over  them  with  becoming  charity. 

Mrs  Grahame  played  the  leading  role  on  all 
occasions,  by  virtue  of  her  matronship,  and  also, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  by  virtue  of  her  purse- 
strings.  Indeed,  they  were  real  good  souls;  but 
one  had  been  unfortunate,  and  the  other  failed  to 
recognise  the  sacrifices  her  sister  was  making  for 
her.  (And  what  sacrifice  can  an  amiable  spinster 
lady  make  greater  than  holding  her  tongue?) 
Their  father,  a  man  of  sanguine  temperament,  had 
died  before  the  commercial  enterprises  in  which 
he  had  launched  his  capital  had  sufficiently  de- 
veloped to  affect  the  death  duties.  So  his  mar- 
ried daughter  was  left  dependent  upon  her  hus- 
band, and  his  unmarried  one  upon  that  personal 
possession  which  was  the  only  endowment  of  a 
certain  milkmaid  of  nursery-rhyme.  Unfortu- 

74 


THE  YOKE 

nately  it  cannot  be  denied  in  the  face  of  bald  fact 
— whatever  the  aspersion  cast  upon  the  gallantry 
of  mankind — that  this  was  a  property  which  had 
not  proved  of  a  freely  negotiable  character.  Con- 
sequently, when  her  sister  was  left  a  widow,  she 
readily  acceded  to  the  latter's  request  to  lighten 
her  bereavement  by  making  her  a  long  visit — a 
visit  which  was  steadily  developing  into  perma- 
nent residence,  if,  indeed,  it  had  not  already  fairly 
earned  that  description,  having  lasted  nearly  seven 
years.  The  arrangement  involved  the  tacit  con- 
dition, which  we  have  hinted  was  perhaps  not 
quite  adequately  appreciated  by  Mrs  Grahame,  that 
she  should  be  willing  largely  to  efface  herself  and 
to  play  a  complementary  second  fiddle.  So  far  as 
was  consonant  with  that,  she  shared  with  her  sister 
the  joys  and  cares  of  her  position  and  her  house- 
hold. Both,  as  we  have  seen,  were  enthusiastically 
alive  to  neighbourly  and  social  obligations,  both 
were  high  authorities  in  all  that  concerned  domes- 
tic service,  both  took  a  deep  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  Cecil  and  a  deeper  one  in  that  of 
Christopher. 

Mrs  Grahame  came  quickly  up  to  Maurice  with 
outstretched  hand. 

75 


THE  YOKE 

She  was  full  of  apologies  for  not  having  been  in 
to  greet  her  guest;  but,  really,  Mrs  Joppling  had 
been  so  hospitable,  and  Mr  Joppling  had  been  so 
full  of  anecdote,  and  Miss  Cameron  had  made  them 
laugh  so  much,  that  the  time  had  slipped  by  before 
they  realised  it.  Miss  Cameron  was  Mr  Jop- 
pling's  niece,  and  such  a  nice  girl,  so  jolly  and 
bright.  It  was  a  pity  that —  (Here  an  unhappy- 
passage  in  Miss  Cameron's  history  was  parenthet- 
ically suggested  in  a  tone  parenthetically  subdued.) 
Finally  she  welcomed  Maurice  very  warmly  to  her 
house  "in  the  wilds."  She  added  facetiously  that 
in  a  household  of  lone  women  a  gentleman  was 
especially  persona  grata. 

Miss  Gaskell  also  said  (when  Mrs  Grahame  had 
quite  finished)  that  she  was  very  pleased  to  meet 
him  again,  and  what  a  pity  it  was  that  he  didn't 
come  oftener  to  Haslemere.  The  handshake  with 
which  she  accompanied  this  sentiment  suggested 
almost  boisterous  camaraderie.  If  Maurice  had 
supposed  (it  implied)  that  he  was  likely  to  find  her 
a  crotchety  old  maid  he  must  forthwith  correct  his 
ideas. 

The  prolixity  of  these  various  remarks  gave 
Maurice  so  long  to  think  of  a  satisfactory  rejoinder, 


THE  YOKE 

that  he  found  the  task  unexpectedly  easy  when  the 
time  came.  He  couldn't  follow  Mrs  Grahame  in 
her  encomiums  of  the  Jopplings  and  their  connec- 
tions, never  having  heard  of  the  Jopplings  before; 
but  he  said  that  it  was  his  own  loss  not  to  have 
been  to  Haslemere  hitherto,  and  that  he  had  no 
idea  there  was  such  beautiful  country  so  near  Lon- 
don. Which  sentiment,  he  gathered,  from  the 
smiles  with  which  it  was  received,  was  quite  the 
right  one  to  express. 

Then  they  all  sat  down;  and  the  ladies  at  once 
pleasantly  included  Maurice  in  the  family  circle 
by  untying  the  strings  of  their  bonnets  and  re- 
moving them.  It  was  only  mid-April  and  there 
was  a  bright  fire  in  the  hearth,  but  the  sun  had 
been  exceptionally  powerful  that  day.  Mrs  Gra- 
hame thought  so,  at  any  rate,  and  Miss  Gaskell 
was  of  the  same  opinion.  They  had  both  noticed 
it  particularly,  they  said,  hurrying  home  from  the 
Jopplings. 

Maurice's  glance  wandered  round  the  bright 
chintz-covered  furniture,  and  out  through  the  long 
French  windows  to  the  spring  tints  in  the  garden, 
and  finally  rested  on  a  clump  of  pine  in  the  dis- 
tance. It  came  back  the  next  moment  to  Mrs 

77 


THE  YOKE 

Grahame,  whose  voice  demanded  him;  but  he 
furtively  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  It  might  have 
been  much  worse.  If  this  had  been  all,  he  would 
have  been  almost  happy.  But  through  everything 
that  had  taken  place — the  greetings,  the  explana- 
tions, the  final  settlement  to  ordered  peace — he 
had  been  conscious  that  his  ordeal  was  not  yet 
over.  Indeed,  the  most  dreaded  part  of  it  re- 
mained to  be  faced.  The  Daughter  of  the  House 
(he  thought  of  her  in  capitals)  had  still  to  make 
her  appearance. 

Her  delay  puzzled  him,  and  for  a  time  it  had 
given  him  a  fluttering  hope.  There  might  be 
some  afternoon  and  evening  engagement,  promis- 
ing at  any  rate  a  temporary  respite.  But  his  ears, 
kept  eagerly  open  for  some  possible  support  of 
that  delectable  hypothesis,  not  only  received  none, 
but  were  finally  ruthlessly  smitten  by  the  chance 
announcement  that  the  lady  of  too-certain  age  was 
actually  in  the  house.  He  had  visions  of  her 
arraying  herself  with  increasing  splendours,  in 
order  to  make  her  eventful  appearance  completely 
dismaying. 

The  door  opened.  His  heart  jumped,  but  he 
kept  his  attention  politely  riveted  on  what  Mrs 

78 


THE  YOKE 

Grahame  was  saying,  and  then  turned  his  head 
quite  quietly.  He  believed  he  knew  something  of 
young  ladies.  But  if  he  could  possibly  help  it, 
he  did  not  think  this  one  would  have  the  slightest 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  was  in  any  way  impressed 
or  moved  by  her  magnificence.  However,  it  was 
only  the  maid  with  the  tea.  It  was  placed  on  a 
small  table  by  the  window;  and  still  the  stage 
waited. 

The  calm — not  to  say  the  indifference — with 
which  the  others  awaited  the  approaching  incur- 
sion seemed  to  him  almost  offensive.  Mrs  Gra- 
hame was  telling  him  a  merry  yarn.  He  retained 
considerable  portions  of  it,  and  felt  sure  he  would 
be  able  to  comment  intelligibly  if  a  pause  occurred 
unexpectedly.  Furthermore,  he  fed  the  incidental 
hope  that  this  sprightly  mood  was  inconsistent  with 
the  private  possession  of  Wednesday's  paper. 
Miss  Gaskell  was  an  interested  and  appreciative 
listener  to  the  story,  which  she  had  heard  a  dozen 
times  before,  and  occasionally  punctuated  it  with 
an  explanatory  observation  in  an  unobtrusive  tone. 
Grahame  was  looking  through  the  "Travel"  replies 
in  the  Queen,  wondering  whether  he  should  go 
to  Paris  or  the  Engadine  for  his  next  holiday. 

79 


THE  YOKE 

Each  and  all,  in  short,  were  behaving  precisely  as 
if  there  were  no  apparition  momentarily  liable  to 
burst  upon  the  peace. 

Then,  while  he  was  still  feeling  the  vague  resent- 
ment which  flowed  from  this  condition  of  affairs, 
the  apparition  was  externalised.  That  exactly  ex- 
presses the  effect.  He  had  not  heard  her  enter. 
Merely  he  became  aware  that  a  tall  and  slender 
young  lady,  with  something  artistic  in  her  air,  was 
present  in  the  room,  was,  in  fact,  coming  across  it 
remarkably  gracefully. 


80 


CHAPTER  VII 

No  one  would  have  thought  of  calling  Cecil 
Grahame  pretty.  The  word  would  not  have  been 
in  the  least  appropriate.  She  might  have  been  said 
to  be  exquisite.  The  whole  suggestion  was  of 
delicacy;  her  features  clear  and  rather  pale,  very 
finely  wrought  in  an  oval  outline.  Her  fair  hair 
swept  across  her  brow  in  one  loose  wave.  It  ap- 
peared to  Maurice  to  be  commendably  simple.  We, 
who  know  better,  know  that  it  was  the  art  that 
conceals  art. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said.  The  natural  culture 
that  was  part  of  her  being  inflected  her  voice. 
"There  was  a  letter  I  had  to  write  before  post- 
time.  Aren't  you  going  to  say  'How-do-you-do' 
to  me,  Chris?" 

"Tea  has  only  just  come  in,  dear,"  said  Mrs 
Grahame,  after  Christopher  had  adequately  recog- 
nised his  sister's  existence.  "You  remember  Mr. 
Heelas?" 

She  extended  a  slender  hand  and  smiled  pleas- 
antly and  naturally. 

Si 


THE  YOKE 

"If  Mr  Heelas  remembers  me"  she  said. 
"Otherwise  my  memory  will  become  shocking." 

Maurice  realised  instinctively  that  the  attitude 
of  polite  indifference  which  he  had  intended  to 
adopt  towards  her  was  unnecessary.  She  was 
plainly  without  the  least  suspicion  of  affectation. 
So  he  actually  allowed  his  dark  eyes  to  dwell  upon 
her  amicably,  and  brought  himself  to  say, — 

"It's  very  jolly  to  meet  you  again." 

Whereupon  Cecil  made  a  mental  note  that  he 
was  remarkably  good-looking,  and  a  further  one 
that  he  didn't  know  it.  Moreover,  when  she  had 
taken  her  place  behind  the  tea-things,  where  she 
always  officiated,  and  Maurice  had  resumed  at- 
tention to  Mrs  Grahame's  diverting  story  (Mrs 
Grahame's  stories  were  never  suffered  to  lapse 
through  interruption — they  were  merely  held 
temporarily  in  abeyance),  she  gave  him  a  longer 
and  more  comprehensive  look  than  she  had  ever 
bestowed  on  him  in  his  boyhood  days.  Incident- 
ally she  tried  to  connect  this  calm  and  refined  and 
rather  shy  person  with  the  ferocious  young  gentle- 
man whose  wild  exploit  was  recorded  in  the  sheet 
of  a  newspaper  reposing  in  the  bottom  drawer  in 
her  room. 

82 


THE  YOKE 

Presently  the  conversation  became  general,  and 
Christopher  got  up  lazily  to  hand  the  tea,  dropping 
the  Queen  with  a  flop  beside  his  chair.  His  truck 
with  it  was  not  extensive.  It  consisted  of  a  careful 
perusal  of  the  "Travel"  replies,  a  passing  glance 
at  Miss  Hoare's  beautiful  women,  and  a  hasty 
run  through  the  advertisements,  on  the  chance  of 
discovering  something  particularly  pungent. 

"You  might  be  holding  my  lump  in,  Cecil,"  he 
said,  as  he  took  two  cups. 

She  looked  up  with  inquiry  and  slight  expostula- 
tion. "Holding  it  in,  Chris?" 

"You  know,  I  told  you.  I've  got  past  the 
actual  sugar  stage ;  but  I  like  a  lump  held  in  for  a 
minute  or  two  and  then  taken  out  again." 

This  aroused  general  protest,  as  being  beyond 
the  reasonable  duties  of  the  dispenser  of  tea.  Even 
Mrs  Grahame,  though  it  evoked  her  mirth,  took 
sides  against  her  son. 

"My  dear  boy,  you  really  can't  expect  Cecil  to 
do  that  for  you,"  she  said. 

"Well,  you  see,  mother,"  said  Christopher,  "it's 
really  my  misfortune  in  not  having  a  taste  to  fit 
the  only  size  that  lumps  of  sugar  are  made.  Will 
you  have  muffin,  or  what?" 

83 


THE  YOKE 

"I  rather  agree  with  you,"  said  Cecil,  with  her 
calm  smile.  "Loaf-sugar  should  be  graduated  or 
made  in  smaller  blocks." 

She  fished  out,  not  without  patient  search,  a 
broken  piece  and  dropped  it  in  his  cup.  It  is  an 
operation  by  no  means  ungraceful  when  the  opera- 
tor has  a  light  and  dainty  hand;  a  conclusion 
which  Maurice,  somewhat  to  his  own  surprise,  was 
sufficiently  observant  to  arrive  at.  Cecil  did  not 
overwhelm  him  and  close  him  up,  as  some  of  her 
sex  did;  she  was  too  natural  to  do  that.  He  felt 
with  regard  to  her  as  one  feels  on  entering  an 
exceptionally  polished  and  pristine  hall,  that  an 
unusually  protracted  communion  with  the  door-mat 
is  demanded,  and  that,  even  so,  it  is  insufficient. 
A  sum  in  simple  addition  made  her  barely  twenty, 
but  he  found  it  extraordinarily  difficult  to  accept 
its  evidence.  She  seemed  so  very  much  at  her  ease, 
so  utterly  self-possessed,  so  quietly  elegant,  so 
graceful,  so  cultured.  She  made  him  wish  he  could 
look  in  the  glass  to  see  if  his  hair  were  tidy.  He 
wondered  also  if  "awfully  jolly" — an  expression 
he  had  just  used — was  really  admissible  in  a  draw- 
ing-room. 

After  tea  the  two  elder  ladies  picked  up  their 
84 


THE  YOKE 

bonnets  and  gloves,  and  various  small  para- 
phernalia they  had  brought  in  their  hands,  and 
beat  a  quiet  retreat.  A  silence,  attributable 
partly  to  reaction  after  their  vivacious  conversa- 
tion, and  partly  to  the  knowledge  of  a  somewhat 
difficult  subject  unbroached,  succeeded  their  de- 
parture. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Christopher,  presently,  draw- 
ing his  chair  closer  to  the  fire,  "I  suppose  you 
don't  happen  to  know,  Cecil,  what  has  become  of 
Wednesday's  paper?" 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  "I  know  where  one 
sheet  of  it  is,"  said  Cecil,  calmly. 

Both  young  men  sat  forward  in  their  chairs, 
and,  after  deciding  that  the  fire  needed  prodding, 
Christopher  said,  "Where?" 

He  had  taken  the  poker  in  his  hand,  but  he  sus- 
pended it  for  the  reply. 

"In  my  bottom  drawer  upstairs,"  said  Cecil. 
"It  was  too  bad  of  you,  Chris,"  she  went  on 
quickly.  "If  mother  had  seen  it,  she  would  never 
have  got  over  it.  I've  been  on  thorns  ever  since, 
lest  somebody  should  tell  her.  This  afternoon  I 
found  out  from  Muriel  Cameron  that  the  Jopplings 
knew." 

85 


THE  YOKE 

Christopher  attacked  the  fire  with  boisterous 
energy,  and  the  operation  gave  Maurice  an  oppor- 
tunity to  look  at  himself  through  untinted  spec- 
tacles, in  the  light  of  Cecil's  protest.  It  required 
those  rays  to  show  him  the  essential  selfishness  of 
their  exploit.  He  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Miss  Grahame,"  he  said. 
"We  were  thoughtless  imbeciles." 

"Oh,  it  really  didn't  matter  very  much  in  your 
case,"  said  Cecil,  turning  to  him.  The  frank  peni- 
tence in  his  face  confirmed  that  note  in  her  mental 
memoranda  and  added  another.  "Mother  has 
rather  prim  ideas,  poor  dear,  and  she  is  too 
old  to  change  them.  Angelica  would  understand 
— or  'Miss  Jenour'  I  suppose  I  ought  to  call  her 


now." 


"She  will  always  be  'Angelica'  to  me,"  said 
Chris,  dropping  the  poker  and  standing  up,  "and 
nothing  else." 

"I  haven't  asked  after  her,"  said  Cecil.  "I  used 
to  love  her  in  the  Cumberland  Square  days,  and 
I'm  sure  I  should  still.  Everyone  does.  It  would 
be  delightful  to  see  her  again." 

"Well,  Cumberland,  Square  is  still  in  existence," 
said  Maurice,  "and  Angelica  still  lives  there.  She 

86 


THE  YOKE 

seems  just  the  same  to  me  as  she  did  six  years  ago, 
and  I  think  she  would  to  you." 

He  wondered,  after  he  had  got  into  bed  that 
night,  if  the  words  amounted  to  an  invitation. 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  we  all  went  to  the 
Zoo  together?"  said  Cecil,  becoming  reminiscent. 
"Chris  insisted  on  riding  on  the  elephant,  so 
Angelica  took  him.  I  knew  perfectly  well  at  the 
time  that  she  didn't  much  want  to,  and  I've  often 
felt  for  her  since.  I  wouldn't  ride  on  that  ridicu- 
lous animal,  before  all  those  staring  people,  how- 
ever much  a  noisy  little  boy  might  clamour." 

"Did  I  do  that?"  said  Chris.  "Just  like  me. 
I  know  the  kind  of  hateful  little  imp." 

The  reminiscence  provoked  others,  which  suc- 
ceeded one  another  so  pleasantly  that  Maurice 
forgot,  for  the  time  being,  at  any  rate,  that  the 
environment  was  not  such  as  his  soul  loved,  that 
he  had  come  to  the  house  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
and  that  he  cherished  a  well-grounded  and  in- 
grained antipathy  to  young  ladies. 

When  eventually  they  made  a  move  to  dress  for 
dinner,  Christopher  lingered  a  moment  behind  with 
his  sister. 

"Cecil,  you're  a  brick,"  he  said. 
8? 


THE  YOKE 

And  Maurice,  who  was  waiting  in  the  hall,  knew 
that  he  put  his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her. 

The  older  ladies  wore  black  at  dinner,  but  Cecil 
appeared  in  a  soft  pink  amalgamation  of  silk  and 
lace,  and  looked  calm  and  elegant.  Her  clothes 
were  made  to  hang  rather  loosely  upon  her,  not 
in  a  slovenly  or  careless  manner,  nor  yet  with  a 
loud  proclamation  of  high  art,  but  with  simple 
grace  and  good  taste. 

During  the  meal  there  were  several  passages 
which  appear  worthy  of  some  reference.  To  begin 
with — or,  rather,  after  the  removal  of  the  fish — 
Grahame  had  a  fore-quarter  of  lamb  placed  in 
front  of  him — calmly,  deliberately  placed  in  front 
of  him  without  explanation  or  apology.  He  looked 
at  it  with  speculative  interest  for  a  few  moments, 
as  a  professor  might  view  an  unfamiliar  biological 
specimen,  and  then  candidly  burst  out  laughing. 

Mrs  Grahame  glanced  round  the  lamp  a  little 
anxiously. 

"What's  the  matter,  Chris?"  she  said. 

"The  matter!"  said  Chris.  "Well—"  His 
explanation  got  no  further,  the  sight  of  the  thing 
in  front  of  him  again  becoming  too  much  for  his 
gravity. 


THE  YOKE 

Mrs  Grahame  got  up,  laughing,  and  trotted 
round  to  the  other  end  of  the  table.  She  wanted 
to  take  the  carving-knife,  but  that  was  an  indignity 
which  Chris  would  not  suffer.  He  sent  it  away 
ostentatiously  to  be  sharpened,  while  his  mother 
explained  the  usually  accepted  methods  of  dealing 
with  the  problem  before  them. 

"My  dear  mother,"  he  said,  "you  must  begin 
at  the  beginning.  I  don't  even  know  what  it  is; 
I  don't  know  what  animal  it  comes  off." 

So  Mrs  Grahame  began  at  the  beginning;  and 
the  matter  becoming  presently  a  trifle  involved, 
chiefly  through  Chris's  interruptions,  Miss  Gaskell 
also  rose  from  her  seat,  to  lend  such  additional 
assistance  as  lay  in  her  power.  Cecil,  who  made 
no  pretence  to  be  an  authority,  took  no  actual 
part  in  the  discussion,  but  she  leaned  forward  and 
watched  the  proceedings  with  quietly  interested 
eyes,  and  lips  hovering  on  the  brink  of  a  laugh; 
and  occasionally  interjected  a  remark  to  correct 
an  obvious  verbal  flaw.  Maurice  was  left  for  the 
moment  in  splendid  isolation  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table. 

Eventually  the  maid  returned  with  the  knife. 
Chris  gave  it  his  approval.  And  so,  with  Mrs 

89 


THE  YOKE 

Grahame  on  one  side  of  him,  pointing  and  instruct- 
ing, and  Miss  Gaskell  on  the  other,  also  pointing 
and  instructing,  and  a  maid  standing  ready  with 
a  spare  dish,  the  shoulder  was  finally  removed  in 
triumph  and  carried  away  amid  the  plaudits  of  the 
company.  After  that  achievement  it  was  a  rudi- 
mentary business  to  sever  the  remainder  into  such 
portions  as  could  be  placed  upon  plates  without 
public  scandal. 

Mrs  Grahame  returned  to  her  seat,  a  little 
flushed,  and  quietly  reverted  to  the  subject  she 
was  discussing  with  Maurice  before  this  incident — 
namely,  the  extreme  heat  of  the  previous  summer. 
It  had  tried  her  severely,  she  informed  him.  She 
thought  there  was  nothing  more  trying  than 
excessive  heat.  The  perpetual  thirst  that  accom- 
panied it  was  so  difficult  to  bear.  But  that  trouble, 
it  appeared,  had  latterly  been  much  assuaged  by 
the  discovery  of  a  remedy  which  gave  great  re- 
lief. 

"I  don't  know  if  you  know  it,"  she  said.  "If 
you  don't,  you  should  take  a  note  of  it:  the  juice 
of  a  lemon  mixed  with  honey  and  a  little  cinnamon. 
A  teaspoonful  quenches  the  thirst  almost  imme- 
diately." 

90 


THE  YOKE 

Maurice  said  he  was  sure  it  must  be  very 
effective  and  that  it  was  kind  of  her  to  tell  him 
about  it. 

"But,  good  gracious,  mother,"  exclaimed  Chris- 
topher, who  had  caught  her  last  words,  "you  don't 
expect  a  man  to  waste  a  thirst  on  a  teaspoonful  of 
lemon  syrup !" 

Mrs  Grahame  looked  at  him  a  little  severely. 
She  didn't  care  to  have  her  pet  specifics  guyed,  even 
by  Christopher.  For  a  few  moments  there  was 
rather  an  awkward  silence. 

"I  found  it  very  comforting  even  in  influenza," 
said  Miss  Gaskell,  dutifully  coming  forward  to 
fill  the  breach.  "Have  you  suffered  much  from 
influenza,  Mr  Heelas?" 

Maurice  thought  he  had  had  it  once,  but  he 
wasn't  sure  if  it  hadn't  been  only  a  bad  cold. 

"Oh,  you  couldn't  mistake  it,"  said  Miss  Gaskell, 
solemnly.  (Maurice  realized  that  he  had  treated 
a  serious  subject  far  too  lightly.)  She  went  on 
to  detail  the  symptoms,  with  special  relation  to 
their  manifestation  in  her  own  case,  which  Maurice 
gathered  had  been  in  some  respects  abnormal,  and 
as  such  found  peculiarly  interesting  by  medical  men. 
This  involved  some  correction  by  Mrs  Grahame 


THE  YOKE 

of  alleged  small  inaccuracies.  ("I  think  it  was 
only  101  on  the  first  day,  Carrie  dear;  it  was  on 
the  second  you  were  102.")  And  so  the  matter  of 
the  lemon  syrup  was  safely  bridged  over. 

The  subject  of  influenza  reminded  Miss  Gaskell 
of  an  amusing  incident  which  had  happened  to  a 
lady  at  Bournemouth.  But  this  was  a  tale  which 
Mrs  Grahame  knew  also.  She  intervened  gaily 
and  continued  it,  Miss  Gaskell  quietly  dropping 
out.  Maurice  laughed  heartily,  so  did  Cecil,  so 
did  Miss  Gaskell.  Mrs  Grahame  was  pleased, 
because,  as  she  remarked,  she  liked  to  see  people 
merry.  She  said  she  thought  a  good  laugh  did  one 
all  the  good  in  the  world.  It  had  always  seemed 
to  her  that  it  was  a  real  misfortune  to  lack  a  sense 
of  the  ludicrous.  One  gathered  that  she  herself 
had  been  happily  endowed  by  Providence  with  a 
peculiarly  keen  susceptibility  in  that  respect. 

Later  in  the  evening,  during  dessert,  she  remem- 
bered a  story  with  a  moral.  She  had  a  way  of 
remembering  stories  with  morals  when  the  day  was 
far  spent.  The  story  was  not  a  long  one,  but  the 
moral  was.  It  was  the  longest  moral  Maurice 
had  ever  heard.  In  delivering  it,  Mrs  Grahame 
did  not  look  at  her  audience,  but  down  at  her  small 

92 


THE  YOKE 

ringed  hands,  which  were  fingering  the  remnants 
in  her  dessert-plate;  and  she  spoke  in  low,  level 
tones,  quietly  but  didactically.  She  was  one  of 
those  persons  who  believed  implicitly  in  the  value 
of  the  spoken  word  and  never  stuck  at  voicing 
things. 

Once  Maurice  completely  lost  the  thread,  and 
went  hot  at  the  thought  that  she  might  stop  sud- 
denly and  expect  him  to  reply.  But  the  even  tones 
flowed  on.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that,  although 
she  had  begun  by  addressing  him  particularly,  she 
was  now  directing  her  remarks  to  the  company  at 
large.  And  on  looking  round,  he  observed  that 
this  was  a  fact  which  the  company  at  large  suffi- 
ciently recognised.  All  were  looking  more  or  less 
uncomfortable  and  trying  not  to  show  it.  Chris- 
topher was  leaning  back  in  his  chair  gazing  at  the 
ceiling,  with  an  appearance  about  his  lips  suggest- 
ing a  strong  but  restrained  inclination  to  whistle. 
Cecil  was  making  patterns  on  the  inside  of  a  piece 
of  orange-peel  with  her  fork.  Miss  Gaskell's 
countenance  expressed  reverent  assent,  in  front  of 
a  little — a  very  little — boredom. 

It  was  evident  that  Mrs  Graham  conceived  her- 
self to  be  executing  a  duty;  not  an  agreeable  one, 

93 


THE  YOKE 

perhaps,  but  for  that  reason  all  the  more  demanded 
of  her.  Weaker  souls  might  have  shrunk  from 
speech;  but  she  was  not  weak.  There  were  three 
young  people  at  the  table,  and  it  was  necessary  to 
their  well-being  that  certain  matters  should  be  kept 
prominently  before  them.  What  better  time, 
surely,  for  such  a  purpose,  than  during  dessert,  in 
the  calm  of  the  evening? 

However,  all  things  must  come  to  an  end,  even 
stories  with  morals.  Mrs  Grahame  brought  her 
exordium  to  a  close  amidst  an  impressive  silence. 
After  a  discreet  interval  she  quietly  rose  and  with- 
drew with  the  other  ladies,  pleasantly  conscious  of 
a  task  well  done. 

Maurice  closed  the  door  carefully  behind  her. 
And,  the  meal  being  thus  concluded, — 

"For  these  and  all  His  mercies,"  said  Chris- 
topher, piously. 


94 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"HAVE  a  cigarette,  Cecil?" 
"I  really  don't  care  about  it,  Chris." 
"Well,  don't  do  it  to  please  me,  my  dear  girl," 
said  Chris,  cheerfully.     "I  honestly  think  I  would 
just  as  soon  you  didn't." 

He  passed  the  cigarettes  to  Maurice,  then  took 
one  himself  and  closed  the  case.  Having  carefully 
placed  an  ash-tray  between  himself  and  Heelas,  he 
stretched  himself  out  on  a  wide,  comfortable- 
looking  sofa  and  pulled  a  copy  of  the  Sporting 
Times  from  his  pocket.  For  the  moment,  how- 
ever, he  resisted  the  temptation  to  read  it  in  the 
face  of  his  visitor. 

"What's  going  to  be  done  this  afternoon?"  he 
asked  impersonally.  "Such  a  fine  day — it  seems 
a  pity  to  stay  indoors." 

This  was  Sunday  afternoon  and  they  were  sit- 
ting in  the  apartment  which,  in  his  mother's  pres- 
ence, Chris  called  vaguely  "the  other  room,"  and, 
out  of  it,  "the  smoke-room,"  and  which  she  her- 
self referred  to  as  "the  library."  There  was,  in 

95 


fact,  some  little  difference  of  opinion  in  the  mat- 
ter. Chris  contended  that  "library"  was  ostenta- 
tious and  misleading,  while  Mrs  Grahame  took  the 
njt  unreasonable  ground  that  "smoke-room"  was 
an  inappropriate  name  for  a  room  which  was  only 
used  as  such  on  her  son's  occasional  week-end  visits. 
Accordingly  the  question  remained  in  suspense — 
so  far,  that  is,  as  the  household  generally  was  con- 
cerned. Mrs  Grahame  regarded  it  as  finally  set- 
tled, and  alluded  quite  freely  and  without  ap- 
parent difficulty  to  the  "library"  in  the  hearing  of 
the  objector — in  the  latter  case,  indeed,  perhaps 
a  little  more  freely  and  incisively  than  other- 
wise. 

The  room  which  supplied  the  bone  of  contention 
was  furnished  in  a  slightly  out-of-date  but  com- 
fortable fashion ;  tall  mahogany  bookcases,  a  pedes- 
tal writing-desk,  leather-covered  armchairs  a  little 
worn,  a  Turkey  carpet  a  little  faded. 

No  one  replying  to  Christopher's  remark,  he 
launched  the  proposition  to  which  it  was  designed 
as  introductory. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said,  "that  if 
Heelas  took  my  bicycle  you  could  show  him  some 
of  the  country,  Cecil."  He  unfolded  the  Sporting 


THE  YOKE 

Times  and  laid  it  on  his  knee.  "I  would  come 
myself,"  he  explained,  "but  of  course  if  I  did  you 
couldn't  have  my  machine,  Heelas."  He  was  evi- 
dently comfortable  as  to  the  incontestable  soundness 
of  his  excuse. 

Just  at  first  Maurice  had  no  misgiving.  The 
arrangement  seemed  patently  out  of  the  question. 
He  expected  Cecil  to  laugh  it  off,  as  the  ingenious 
artifice  of  a  lazy  brother.  Then,  to  his  horror  and 
amaze,  he  saw  that  she  was  seriously  considering 
it,  that,  in  fact,  she  was  going  to  agree.  For  a 
moment  a  wild  thought  of  firmly  refusing  to  de- 
prive the  reclining  and  obviously  "settled  for  the 
afternoon"  Christopher  of  his  bicycle  shot  into 
his  brain.  The  next,  the  gross  discourtesy  to  Cecil 
of  such  a  transparent  subterfuge  was  apparent.  He 
pulled  himself  together.  If  the  thing  had  to  be 
gone  through  he  must  make  the  best  of  it;  though 
what  he  was  going  to  find  to  talk  about,  for  two  or 
three  hours,  to  this  elegant  and  fashionable  young 
lady,  he  hadn't  the  faintest  conception. 

"Imagine  Chris  being  inspired  with  such  a  prac- 
ticable idea!"  said  Cecil.  "How  long  has  it  been 
evolving,  lazy-bones?  I'm  quite  agreeable."  She 
didn't  realise  in  the  least  that  she  was  dropping  a 

97 


THE  YOKE 

bombshell.  "What  do  you  say?"  she  asked,  turn- 
ing to  Maurice. 

He  was  quite  aware  that  she  consciously  avoided 
his  surname.  She  had  used  it  once  or  twice  dur- 
ing the  last  twenty-four  hours,  though  not  without 
some  difficulty.  In  fact,  he  had  been  a  little  sur- 
prised to  find  that  the  family  with  one  accord  had 
elected  to  promote  him  to  that  dignity  since  he  last 
had  intercourse  with  them. 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  performer  on  a  bicycle,"  he 
replied,  with  an  attempt  to  laugh.  "It's  some  time 
since  I  rode  one.  But  I  hope  I  shouldn't  disgrace 
you." 

He  didn't  succeed  in  hiding  his  reluctance  so  com- 
pletely that  it  failed  to  reach  Cecil's  intelligence. 
She  attributed  it  to  its  right  cause,  but  it  made  her 
flush  just  perceptibly. 

"The  machines  are  in  a  shed  behind  the  house," 
said  Chris,  becoming  restless.  "Cecil  will  show 
you."  He  fingered  the  pink  paper  affectionately. 

"Oh,  then  I'll  go  and  see  if  they  want  pumping 
up,"  said  Maurice. 

The  next  move  rested  with  Cecil,  but  she  hesi- 
tated to  make  it.  Her  emotions  were  a  little 
mixed.  They  included  some  pride,  but  also  a  cer- 

98 


THE  YOKE 

tain  sympathetic  recognition  of  Maurice's  readiness 
to  take  his  diffidence  by  the  horns. 

"You  might  take  him  over  Hindhead,"  said 
Christopher,  to  whom  this  hitch  was  a  trifle  per- 
plexing. "You  get  a  good  idea  of  the  country 
from  the  top." 

"Very  well,"  said  Cecil  at  length,  but  rather 
slowly.  "But  I  must  change  my  dress  first.  I 
won't  be  long."  She  was  standing  near  the  win- 
dow, looking  out,  and  she  added,  as  if  in  excuse  for 
her  action,  "How  lovely  it  is!" 

"Yes,  it's  a  lovely  afternoon,"  said  Chris,  en- 
thusiastically. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  of  candid  relief  as  the 
door  eventually  closed  behind  the  other  two,  leav- 
ing him  at  last  in  a  position  to  turn  his  attention  to 
the  Sporting  Times. 

During  the  inevitable  adjustments  which  pre- 
cede every  cycle  excursion  (Cecil's  front  tyre  was 
down  and  Chris's  saddle  needed  lowering)  there 
seemed  some  reason  to  fear  that  Maurice's  mis- 
givings as  to  the  conversational  product  of  the  out- 
ing might  be  fulfilled.  Neither  of  them  was 
naturally  loquacious,  and  the  beginning  had  not 

99 


THE  YOKE 

been  auspicious.  Constraint  had  raised  its  chilling 
head,  making  them  both  conscious  that,  even  in  the 
practical  references  to  nuts  and  tubes,  they  were 
engaged  in  the  distasteful  business  of  "making  con- 
versation." 

Matters  mended,  however,  when  they  started. 
Bicycles,  in  such  circumstances  as  these,  have  one 
very  distinct  advantage  over  any  other  means  of 
locomotion  in  that  they  provide  frequent  excuse, 
if  not  actual  necessity,  for  keeping  otherwise  than 
abreast.  During  the  twists  and  turns,  the  ups 
and  downs,  through  Haslemere  and  Shottermill, 
they  were  too  much  engaged  with  the  management 
of  their  machines  to  have  been  able  to  talk,  except 
in  quick  exclamations,  even  had  they  wished. 
Thus,  by  the  time  they  reached  the  long  ascent  of 
Hindhead  and  were  obliged  to  dismount,  they  had 
bridged  the  worst  and  were  able  to  take  their  asso- 
ciation in  some  degree  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Cecil  showed  her  companion,  as  they  passed 
them,  the  houses  of  the  various  notabilities  that 
stood  on  the  hillside.  A  popular  publisher  lived 
here ;  there  was  the  abode  of  a  distinguished  oculist ; 
there  again  was  the  famous  stockade  erected  by 
an  eminent  scientist  to  keep  his  neighbours  at  arm's 

100 


THE  YOKE 

length,  neighbours  who  persisted  in  hustling  him 
on  this  wild  forest-land  he  had  thought  to  make 
his  own.  Near  the  summit  was  the  house  of  the 
novelist  who  had  given  the  world  Micah  Clarke, 
and  with  that  enthralling  story  revived  the  his- 
torical romance.  Finally  there  was  the  hill-top 
— the  very  "hill-top"  which  had  inspired  and  seen 
the  productions  of  the  novels  which  bore  that  title, 
though  the  hand  which  had  penned  them  would 
write  no  more. 

These  were  all  things  which  Maurice  found  gen- 
uinely interesting;  so  much  so  that,  as  they  neared 
the  end  of  their  tedious  walk,  he  was  talking  natu- 
rally and  even  animatedly. 

"Did  you  ever  try  to  write?"  asked  Cecil. 

"Nothing  but  opinions  on  cases,"  he  replied  with 
a  laugh,  "and  those  Counsel  usually  turns  into  his 
own  words  before  they  go  to  the  client."  He 
paused  and  became  momentarily  pensive.  "Except 
three  verses  once,"  he  added  honestly. 

Cecil  turned  a  quick  glance  on  him.  "To  a 
lady?"  she  inquired. 

Maurice  flushed  slightly.  "Well,  none  that  I 
ever  spoke  to,"  he  said. 

"Will  you  show  me  them?"  asked  Cecil. 
101 


THE  YOKE 

"Good  gracious,  no  I"  cried  Maurice,  horrified, 
"even  if  I  hadn't  burnt  them,  which  I  have,  long 
ago.  Which  way  are  we  going?" 

They  decided  to  take  the  Farnham  Road,  and 
almost  immediately  had  begun  the  swift,  exhilarat- 
ing three-mile  freewheel.  Shouting  something, 
Cecil  whizzed  past  Maurice,  a  white  flash  of  float- 
ing drapery.  Less  experienced  both  with  his  ma- 
chine and  of  the  road,  he  took  the  descent  more 
cautiously.  For  all  that,  he  was  distinctly  under 
the  impression  that  he  was  "letting  her  go."  His 
hubs  hummed  and  the  air  met  him  with  a  cutting 
rush.  But  a  receding  speck  at  the  other  end  of 
an  occasional  straight  stretch  was  all  the  glimpse 
he  got  of  Cecil  until  he  reached  the  bottom.  There 
he  found  her  dismounted  and  waiting  for  him  by 
the  "Pride  of  the  Valley,"  a  little  flushed,  but  quite 
composed  and  elegant. 

"Safe  and  sound?"  he  said,  jumping  off  and 
looking  at  her.  "I'm  awfully  glad.  But  you 
make  me  feel  rather  like  a  lame  duck." 

"Oh,  I'm  very  foolish,"  admitted  Cecil.  "But 
I  never  can  resist  that  hill,  and  it  makes  my  fingers 
ache  to  hold  the  brakes." 

At  this  point  there  was  a  choice  of  four  routes, 
102 


THE  YOKE 

each  looking  equally  tempting.  After  a  little  hesi- 
tation they  continued  towards  Farnham,  proceed- 
ing sedately  along  a  level  road  bordered  by  pine 
and  birch.  Cecil  kept  glancing  at  a  sequence  of 
small  lanes  that  ran  into  the  main  highway  from 
the  left. 

"I  feel  sure  that  if  we  took  one  of  these  bye- 
roads,"  she  said,  "we  should  come  out  on  the 
Frensham  Road.  We  could  get  home  from  there. 
It  would  be  better  than  going  back  the  same  way." 

"I'm  quite  willing  to  make  the  experiment,"  said 
Maurice.  By  this  time  he  was  becoming  enthusias- 
tic of  the  gem-like  scenery,  which  was  continually 
breaking  upon  them  in  some  new  phase. 

So  they  wheeled  round  the  next  turning.  It  led 
them  beside  a  high  garden-wall  and  then  through 
a  pine  wood.  Up  to  this  point  it  was  rideable, 
with  care.  But  out  of  the  wood  they  emerged 
upon  a  wide  upland  of  heath,  rising  to  a  consid- 
erable height,  and  the  road  became  a  mere  sandy 
track  worn  among  the  heather.  They  dismounted 
and  looked  at  one  another,  and  both  voted  without 
hesitation  for  advance.  There  was  a  romantic  sug- 
gestion in  the  prospect;  too  enchanting  to  be  left 
unpursued. 

103 


THE  YOKE 

"It  can't  be  very  far,"  said  Cecil. 

They  pushed  their  machines  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 
and  then  paused  to  take  breath.  Over  on  the  other 
side,  at  the  distance  of  about  a  mile,  was  the  main 
road  to  Frensham.  It  was  a  mild  afternoon;  and 
Maurice,  for  his  part,  felt  lazy.  It  was  uncom- 
monly pleasant  up  here.  He  glanced  at  his  com- 
panion tentatively.  Could  Cecil  Grahame  sit  on 
the  heather?  The  thought  seemed  to  border  on 
the  irreverent;  but,  even  as  it  passed  through  his 
mind,  he  saw  her  drop  her  bicycle  and  sink  lightly 
on  a  small  hummock. 

"I  must  rest,"  she  said.  "Besides,  it's  so  lovely 
here." 

Immediately  below  them  was  a  small  lake,  lonely 
and  quite  still,  fringed  on  two  sides  by  the  pine 
wood  they  had  come  through.  It  was  seen  across 
the  heather,  which  surrounded  them  on  all  sides 
and  struck  the  eye,  at  this  time  of  the  year,  less 
by  its  purples  than  by  its  cloudy  greens,  which 
merged  eventually,  with  wonderful  continuity  of 
effect,  into  the  deeper  cloudy  greens  of  the  pines. 
Mixed  with  it  was  bracken  and  a  little  gorse;  and, 
ringing  all,  trees,  mostly  evergreen,  trees  inuumer- 
able,  over  hill  and  valley,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 

104 


THE  YOKE 

reach — not  disfigured,  but  rather  enhanced  through 
contrast,  by  the  red  roof  of  a  house,  just  protrud- 
ing, here  and  there.  Behind  them — it  seemed  a 
great  way  oft — the  summit  of  Hindhead  lifted  it- 
self conspicuously  out  of  the  surrounding  country. 

Maurice  breathed  his  relief  and  dropped  down 
gratefully  beside  Cecil.  It  was  pleasant  to  relax 
his  limbs.  There  appeared  to  be  no  need  to  talk; 
solitude  and  scenery  blot  out  conventional  necessi- 
ties. He  removed  his  cap  and  let  the  light  breeze 
flow  through  his  hair;  then  pushed  back  the  wisps 
on  either  side  of  his  brow — a  futile  habit,  since  they 
immediately  fell  forward  into  place.  In  the  course 
of  these  proceedings  he  realised,  somewhat  ab- 
ruptly, that  he  was  enjoying  himself. 

"Don't  you  want  to  smoke?"  said  Cecil,  pres- 
ently. 

He  did,  but  he  hadn't  dared  to  ask.  Cecil  even 
rendered  assistance  in  screening  the  wind  while  he 
lighted  a  cigarette.  Really,  she  was  becoming  won- 
derfully human ;  and  the  remarkable  thing  was  that 
he  accepted  her  as  such  quite  calmly.  He  sat  with 
his  knees  drawn  up  and  his  hands  loosely  folded 
across  them,  and  quietly  surveyed  the  scene  in  front 
of  him. 

105 


THE  YOKE 

"It's  really  very  pretty,"  he  said  meditatively, 
with  the  studious  care  of  youth  to  avoid  commit- 
ting itself  to  too  great  raptures.  "It  makes  me 
feel  almost  ashamed  not  to  have  seen  it  before. 
I've  been  to  Italy  and  to  Norway.  And  this  is 
only  forty  miles  from  town." 

He  spoke  because  he  was  moved  to,  not  for  the 
purpose  of  "making  conversation." 

"Does  that  mean  you  will  come  again?"  asked 
Cecil. 

Maurice  continued  to  gaze  at  the  little  lake, 
through  his  rising  smoke  wreaths,  with  an  absorbed 
expression.  "That  depends  whether  I'm  wanted 
or  not,"  he  said. 

A  few  hours  earlier  he  would  have  answered  the 
same  question  by  "I  hope  so,"  or  "I  shall  do  my 
best,"  with  the  private  intention  to  leave  the  matter 
at  that. 

"Of  course  you  will  be  wanted,"  said  Cecil,  turn- 
ing upon  him  with  sudden  animation.  "What  an 
absurdly  modest  creature  you  are!  Do  you  think 
we  have  all  changed  into  frigid  strangers  in  the  last 
six  years?" 

Maurice  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"You  have  changed,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  ac- 
106 


THE  YOKE 

cent  on  the  pronoun,  and  the  next  moment  was 
struck  by  the  audacity  of  the  subject. 

"I  have  added  an  inch  or  two  in  height,"  said 
Cecil,  smiling.  "That  was  scarcely  within  my  con- 
trol." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Maurice. 

"And  I  have  put  my  hair  up  and  let  down 
my  frocks,"  continued  Cecil.  "Do  you  object  to 
that?" 

"Something  more,"  he  persisted. 

"Well,  what?" 

She  flattened  her  palms  on  the  heather  on  either 
side  of  her,  leant  back  on  them,  and  looked  at 
him. 

"It's  very  difficult  to  explain,"  said  Maurice, 
picking  at  the  feathery  stalks  between  his  knees. 
"It's  awfully  cheeky  of  me  to  have  begun  the  sub- 
ject. Do  you  mind?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"I  shouldn't  ask  if  I  did.     I  want  to  know." 

He  knocked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette,  then 
abruptly  met  her  glance.  "You  have  matured 
altogether,"  he  said,  almost  hurriedly;  "grown 
more  unapproachable  somehow.  For  instance,  I 
have  become  'Mr  Heelas.'  ' 

"Would  you  prefer  to  be  'Maurice'?" 
107 


THE  YOKE 

"I'm  more  used  to  it,"  said  he. 

Cecil  sat  up  and  smiled  whimsically.  "Young 
ladies — "  she  began.  "I'm  a  young  lady,  you  un- 
derstand?" she  interjected. 

"I  know  that,"  said  Maurice.  "That  is  pre- 
cisely the  point." 

"Young  ladies,"  proceeded  Cecil,  "in  things  of 
that  kind  have  to  follow  the  lead  of  their  natural 
guardians.  We  are  not  expected  to  think  or  act 
for  ourselves.  It  is  all  laid  down  in  the  great 
social  ordinance.  You  mustn't  blame  me  for  the 
absurdities  of  a  code  which  I  don't  believe  in  but 
have  to  obey." 

Maurice  lighted  a  new  cigarette  from  the  stump 
of  the  old  one  and  returned  to  his  contemplation  of 
the  scenery.  Many  young  men,  similarly  situated, 
would  have  playfully  begged  for  at  least  a  tempo- 
rary and  experimental  return  to  the  familiar 
method  of  address.  Perhaps  Cecil  would  not  have 
been  entirely  displeased  had  Maurice  done  so. 
Haslemere,  for  all  its  natural  charm,  was  not 
precisely  a  stimulating  centre  of  existence,  and  Mrs 
Grahame's  circle  of  friends,  in  spite  of  their  con- 
ventional culture,  were  remarkable  neither  for  their 
youth  nor  originality.  Some  foolish,  trifling  badi- 

108 


THE  YOKE 

nage  with  a  handsome  youth  might  perhaps  have 
served  as  an  alleviating  interlude.  But  all  she 
could  detect  in  Maurice's  profile  was  a  mind  which 
had  passed  naturally  from  a  subject  not  worth  dis- 
cussing. His  calm  abstraction  slightly — very 
slightly — piqued  her. 

"You  ought  to  have  been  an  artist,"  she  said 
presently. 

He  turned  his  head.     "Why?"  he  asked. 

"You  look  like  one." 

Maurice  laughed.  "That's  a  woman's  reason," 
he  said. 

"Of  course  it  is.  What  a  foolish  thing  to 
say.  Besides,  you  are  interested  in  beautiful 
things." 

"I  admire  scenery,"  he  admitted. 

"So  you  are  glad  I  made  you  come?" 

"Tow  made  me  come !"  said  Maurice. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  was  Chris.  But  you  didn't 
very  much  want  to,  did  you  ?" 

She  was  smiling;  but  Maurice  flushed.  He  felt 
indignant.  "I  don't  think  it's  fair  to  say  that," 
he  said. 

But  Cecil  was  inexorable.  "Did  you?"  she  re- 
peated. 

109 


THE  YOKE 

"No,  I  didn't." 

"But  you're  glad  you  came?" 

He  dared  to  hesitate. 

"You're  glad  you  came?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Well,  don't  be  cross.  And  pull  me  up,  please. 
It's  time  we  were  going."  She  held  out  two  slim 
gloved  hands. 

When  they  had  descended  to  the  road  Maurice 
looked  at  his  watch  and  announced  that  it  was 
nearly  five.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  they 
came  to  a  sandy  bye-road,  where  was  a  large  board, 
directing — by  means  of  a  finger  pointing  down  the 
pleasant,  leafy  recesses  of  the  lane — to  the  Fren- 
sham  Pond  Hotel,  and  incidentally  referring  to  the 
numerous  advantages  to  be  derived  from  a  tem- 
porary sojourn  there.  The  course  was  obvious. 
They  went  to  the  hotel,  and  had  tea  in  the  verandah 
overlooking  the  larger  lake. 

The  romantic  situation  made  Maurice  suddenly 
expansive. 

"When  a  gem  of  an  inn!"  he  said.  "Do  you 
know  what  strikes  me  about  it?" 

"No,"  said  Cecil,  pulling  off  her  gloves;  "unless 
that  it  would  make  a  good  subject  far  a  painting?" 

no 


THE  YOKE 

"That  it  would  be  an  ideal  spot  to  spend  a  honey- 
moon." 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  there  were  such 
things,"  said  Cecil,  witheringly. 

They  went  back  through  Churt,  avoiding  Hind- 
head  by  a  long  detour,  and  arrived  home  about  half- 
past  six.  They  found  Christopher  in  the  garden, 
pretending  to  weed  a  rose-bed. 

"Hello,  you  two!"  he  said.  "You've  missed 
tea." 

"We've  had  it,"  said  Cecil,  "at  Frensham." 

"Bona-fide  travellers !"  He  dragged  out  a  long 
string  of  chickweed  with  the  hoe,  from  a  place 
where  it  wasn't  visible,  and  left  it  in  another  where 
it  was.  "Did  they  make  you  swear  an  affidavit?" 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  Chris?"  asked 
Cecil,  innocently. 

"I  hung  about,"  said  Chris.  "The  afternoon 
slipped  away.  I  almost  fancy  I  must  have  gone 
to  sleep." 


Ill 


CHAPTER  IX 

MAURICE'S  visit  to  Haslemere  was  the  precursor 
of  others.  The  ice  once  broken,  it  became  a  pleas- 
ure to  go  there.  During  the  heat  of  the  London 
summer,  especially,  it  was  an  unquestionable  asset 
— this  invigorating  upland  where  one  could  revive. 
Once  or  twice  Angelica  accompanied  him,  to  the 
great  joy  of  Mrs  Grahame  and  Miss  Gaskell,  who 
found  her  an  exquisite  listener.  There  is  nothing 
strikingly  heroic  in  being  such.  Yet  she  had  been 
born  with  no  greater  aptitude  than  you  and  I, 
reader,  to  listen  attentively  to  wordy  moral  plati- 
tudes or  intricate  stories  about  people  she  did  not 
know,  or  to  pass  unchallenged  didactic  opinions 
with  which  she  was  not  in  sympathy,  but  which 
it  would  have  served  no  purpose  to  impugn.  She 
had  simply  the  faculty  of  discovering  quickly 
what  would  give  others  most  pleasure,  and  adapted 
herself  by  the  knowledge  with  unconscious  selfless- 
ness. 

So  the  elder  ladies  monopolised  Angelica's  com- 
pany on  the  occasions  of  her  short  visits.  It  was 

112 


THE  YOKE 

an  arrangement  which  was  found  decidedly  tan- 
talising by  Cecil.  Sometimes  she  felt  almost 
angry  with  Angelica  for  her  complacency.  True, 
she  was  at  liberty  to  sit  in  the  drawing-room  as 
long  as  she  wished  and  to  listen,  with  Angelica, 
to  her  mother's  discourses.  But  that  was  not 
precisely  what  she  wanted.  She  would  have  liked 
to  have  taken  her  up  to  her  room  and  kept  her 
there  an  hour  or  two,  to  have  shown  her  her 
clothes  and  talked  to  her,  alone  and  unimpeded, 
of  the  hundred  and  one  things  which  a  girl  yearns 
to  pour  into  responsive  ears.  In  her  childhood 
she  had  always  found  it  possible  to  open  her  heart 
to  Angelica  far  more  unreservedly  than  to  her 
mother.  Instinctively  she  knew  that  she  could 
do  so  still.  But  Mrs  Grahame  talked  on,  and  Miss 
Gaskell  punctuated,  and  Angelica  listened,  and 
Cecil  fretted. 

If  Angelica  herself  shared  these  feelings  in  any 
degree,  no  one  was  permitted  to  suspect  it,  not  even 
Maurice.  Her  hostesses,  at  any  rate,  had  no  reason 
to  believe,  and  certainly  they  did  not  believe,  that 
she  found  their  society  any  less  delightful  than  they 
found  hers. 

As  a  consequence  of  this  renewal  of  friendship, 


THE  YOKE 

however,  Christopher  and  Cecil,  twice  during  the 
season,  spent  two  nights  at  Cumberland  Square  and 
"did"  theatres.  Then,  indeed,  Cecil  was  able  to 
revel  in  a  sweet  waste  of  intimate  confabulations. 
Her  affection  for  Angelica  grew  into  a  kind  of 
worship,  such  as  a  younger  woman  not  uncommonly 
gives  to  an  elder  whom  she  trusts  and  admires. 
She  had  the  most  profound  respect  for  her  judg- 
ment in  all  things,  and  her  somewhat  independent 
spirit  was  almost  enthusiastically  willing  to  be 
guided  by  the  elder  woman's  calm  advice.  She 
would  wait  anxiously  for  Angelica's  verdict  on  some 
point  of  feminine  difficulty  and  became  quite  ex- 
ultant if  it  favoured  her  hopes. 

"Don't  say  I  was  wrong,  Angelica,"  she  would 
plead;  "don't,  if  you  can  possibly  help  it." 

Angelica's  answers  were  always  quite  impar- 
tially given;  but  as  Cecil's  actions  and  opinions 
were  guided  by  a  pretty  sound  and  clear  intuition, 
it  happened  that  they  usually  coincided  with  her 
wishes;  a  circumstance  which  I  am  not  prepared 
to  say — for  Cecil  was  undeniably  human — was 
uninfluential  in  the  development  of  her  homage. 

Their  most  intimate,  most  thoroughly  enjoyable 
and  satisfactory  conversations  took  place  late  at 

114 


THE  YOKE 

night,  when  respectable  people,  such  as  you  and 
I  and  Mrs  Grahame,  would  be  asleep  in  our  beds. 

"How  those  women  chatter!"  said  Chris  to 
Maurice,  sitting  in  the  morning-room  one  night 
after  the  theatre  and  listening  to  the  continuous 
murmur  of  voices  in  the  room  above  them. 

"I  suppose  we  appear  to  be  doing  the  same  to 
them,"  said  Maurice,  who  was  eating  a  sandwich. 
"I've  often  noticed,  when  you  are  not  in  the  room 
and  can  only  hear  voices,  you  get  the  impression 
that  people  are  talking  a  heap  more  than  you  do 
when  you  can  follow  the  words." 

"Yes,  very  likely,"  said  Chris.  "When  you 
think  about  it,  two  people  sitting  together  are  gen- 
erally saying  something.  Jove,  what  a  funny 
thing  it  is  that  there  should  always  be  something 
to  say — always.  Up  there,  for  instance — what- 
ever it  is,  it  wouldn't  matter  if  they  didn't  say  it — 
but  they  are  saying  it." 

'How  do  you  know  it  wouldn't  ?  What  do  you 
suppose  they  are  talking  about?" 

"Clothes,"  said  Christopher,  without  hesitation. 

"Angelica  wouldn't  talk  long  about  that,"  said 
Maurice,  decidedly. 

"Well,  she  is  always  well  dressed." 
"5 


THE  YOKE 

"So  are  you,  but  you  don't  talk  about  it." 

"Oh,"  said  Chris,  "a  man  who  talks  about  his 
clothes — I"  Words  failed  him  to  express  his 
abysmal  contempt.  "Love  affairs,  perhaps?" 

"Angelica!"  said  Maurice,  in  astonishment. 
"Oh,  no.  Not  her  own,  at  any  rate." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Christopher's  tongue  to  put 
a  leading  question  on  the  subject  of  Angelica's  his- 
tory. But  he  was  a  youth  of  delicate  perception, 
and  it  occurred  to  him — as  it  had  occurred  to  him 
on  similar  previous  occasions — that  it  would  pos- 
sibly fail  in  taste.  So  he  kept  silence. 

"And  I  don't  suppose  your  sister  has  any,"  con- 
cluded Maurice. 

"Well,  the  neighbourhood  is  not  quite  con- 
genial," observed  Chris,  thoughtfully;  "the  doctor 
is  married,  and  so  is  the  parson,  but  the  Mater 
knows  two  retired  colonels,  who  are  widowers. 
She  says  they  are  awfully  funny  fellows,  but  I  don't 
think  Cecil  has  a  sense  of  humour.  We'll  say  the 
play,  then." 

Maurice  finished  his  sandwich  and  lighted  a  pipe. 
"We  stopped  talking  about  that  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago,"  he  said. 

"And  what  has  been  the  subject  since?" 
116 


"Them." 

Christopher  helped  himself  to  another  sand- 
wich. "Us?"  he  suggested. 

Maurice  blew  a  ruminative  cloud  of  smoke — not 
uncharged  with  pleasant  fancy.  Things  had 
pushed  on  a  little  since  that  first  bicycle  ride,  re- 
corded in  the  last  chapter.  There  had  been  other 
rides,  and  opportunities  of  conversation  apart  from 
rides,  in  the  course  of  which  he  had  discovered 
unexpected  traits  in  Cecil.  She  had  no  objection 
to  "awfully  jolly."  In  fact,  you  could  talk  to  her 
as  you  were  accustomed  to  talk  to  other  people; 
perhaps  even  more  easily  than  to  some — Mr  Ken- 
yon,  K.C.,  for  example.  Her  horizon  extended 
considerably  beyond  the  commonplace  and  the 
obvious,  and  included  in  its  broad  sweep  percep- 
tions almost  daringly  advanced.  There  were  times, 
indeed,  when  she  still  seemed  somewhat  empyreal 
and  unapproachable,  as,  for  instance,  when  she 
came  down  in  the  evening  dressed  for  the  theatre 
— on  which  occasions  he  had  to  keep  on  reminding 
himself  that  it  was  the  same  person  who  sometimes 
sat  on  the  heather — but  he  had  long  ago  found  out 
that  she  was  not  the  artificial  and  self-centred 
"young  lady"  of  his  imagination.  Over  and  above 

117 


THE  YOKE 

all  this — as  inducing  to  his  proper  appreciation  of 
her — it  had  begun  to  dawn  upon  him,  considerably 
to  his  surprise,  that  she  gave  signs  of  no  especial 
aversion  to  the  society  of  Maurice  Heelas — a  small 
item  of  knowledge  which  encourages  the  self-esteem 
of  the  best  of  us. 

So  his  mind  dwelt  not  ungratefully  upon  Chris- 
topher's last  conjecture.  But  he  decided  to  be 
sceptical.  "I  don't  think  it's  the  least  likely,"  he 
said. 

"What  will  you  bet?"  said  Chris. 

"Sixpence,"  said  Maurice,  cautiously. 

"I  never  plunge,"  said  Chris. 

"Not  often." 

"Honestly,  I  haven't  betted,  Heelas,  since  I 
dropped  that  fiver  on  Cat's-eye.  I  don't  think  it's 
fair  to  the  Mater.  Well,  let  us  say  half-a-crown. 
You  can't  object  to  that.  You  ought  to  lay  me 
odds." 

"Right  you  are,"  said  Maurice.  "I'll  soon  find 
out." 

He  jumped  from  his  seat  and  ran  half-way  up 
the  first  flight  of  stairs. 

"Angelica!"  he  called. 

He  had  to  call  again  before  Angelica  opened  the 
118 


THE  YOKE 

door.  She  was  wrapped  in  the  thin,  pale-blue 
dressing-gown,  whose  loose  folds,  edged  with  deep 
lace,  fell  to  her  feet. 

"We  want  to  know  what  you  are  talking  about?" 
said  Maurice,  calmly. 

"What!" 

Angelica  came  slowly  forward,  smiling  her  aston- 
ishment. As  she  did  so,  Maurice  was  suddenly 
struck  by  her  beauty.  It  had  never  impressed  him 
in  the  same  way  before.  It  was  only,  indeed,  since 
the  night  of  their  memorable  conversation  after 
his  encounter  with  the  police,  that  he  had  been 
able  to  see  in  her  a  being  capable  of  possessing 
physical  beauty.  Since  then  he  had  recognised  it, 
but  at  no  time  quite  as  now.  There  was  something 
in  the  grace  and  dignity  of  her  carriage,  as  she  came 
slowly  forward,  something,  too,  in  the  soft  contour 
of  her  neck  and  cheek,  which  made  him  thrill  with 
admiration. 

"To  settle  a  silly  dispute,"  he  said,  changing 
instinctively  his  off-hand  tone. 

"Why,  what  rubbish  have  you  been  talking 
about?"  said  Angelica,  half  laughing. 

She  leant  over  the  balustrades  and  pressed  upon 
them  to  speak  to  him,  unconsciously  displaying  the 

119 


THE  YOKE 

tender  moulding  of  her  woman's  form.  Maurice 
received  a  species  of  shock.  This  was  Angelica 
— no  beautiful  stranger,  but  Angelica,  with  whom 
he  had  lived  for  nearly  twenty  years.  Angelica, 
whom  he  had  never  seen  till  now.  The  remem- 
brance of  her  gentle  confession  flowed  through  him 
like  wine,  as  he  looked  up  at  her,  bending  towards 
him — gracious,  supple,  very  womanly.  He  seemed 
to  have  no  other  sense  than  vision.  He  hadn't 
heard  what  she  said.  For  a  few  moments  he  stood 
and  gazed  at  her  foolishly,  then  took  his  eyes  away 
with  an  effort  and  abruptly  turned  and  began  to 
descend. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said  huskily.  "Never 
mind,  Angelica." 

"But— stop,"  cried  Angelica.  "Stop.  I'll  tell 
you,  Maurice."  She  looked  through  the  open  door 
beside  her.  "What  was  it,  Cecil?  What  were  we 
talking  about?" 

"Mr  Bernard  Shaw,"  replied  Cecil,  from  the 
bedroom. 

"Mr  Bernard  Shaw,"  called  Angelica  down  the 
stairs. 

"Mr  Bernard  Shaw,"  repeated  Christopher,  in 
the  morning-room.  "Then  I  pay." 

1 20 


CHAPTER  X 

Now,  during  these  months — the  months  that 
followed  his  first  Haslemere  visit — Maurice  had 
honestly  kept  faith  with  Angelica.  That  is  to  say, 
he  had  not  put  himself  into  the  way  of  temptation 
— or,  to  put  the  matter  more  accurately,  he  had 
given  himself  no  chance  of  yielding  to  the  tempta- 
tion within  him.  That  must  not  be  regarded  as 
suggesting  that  there  was  anything  vicious  in  his 
composition.  We  have  set  up  so  austere  a 
standard  in  these  days,  that  the  mere  possession 
of  human  instincts  may  quite  possibly  be  con- 
demned as  evidence  of  vicious  proclivities.  I 
firmly  believe  that  even  eating,  if  it  were  not  neces- 
sary to  sustain  life,  would  be  arbitrarily  catalogued 
as  a  vice,  solely  because  it  is  capable  of  conferring  a 
certain  amount  of  physical  pleasure.  A  great  deal 
of  confusion  results  from  the  slovenly  use  of  terms. 
One  sees  references  to  the  "instinct  of  cruelty" 
and  the  "instinct  of  revenge."  Those  are  vices. 
There  are  only  two  instincts  implanted  in  hu- 
manity; one  is  to  sustain  life,  the  other  is  to  per- 

121 


THE  YOKE 

petuate  it.  All  others,  so  called,  may  be  brought 
under  one  of  those  heads.  There  is  nothing  im- 
moral in  either  of  them.  Particularly  they  include 
the  appetites.  I  fearlessly  assert  that  there  is  no 
vice  in  the  temperate  gratification  of  any  appe- 
tite. 

Maurice  was  interested  in  his  profession  and 
anxious  to  succeed  in  it.  Stirring  visions  came  to 
him  at  times — usually  while  he  was  lying  awake 
in  bed — of  Maurice  Heelas,  K.C.,  leading  in  a 
cause  celebre.  Occasionally,  when  he  was  quite 
alone,  he  would  put  his  right  foot  on  a  chair,  rest 
his  right  elbow  on  the  raised  knee,  and  extend  his 
right  forefinger,  with  the  hand  palm  uppermost. 
On  those  occasions  he  conceived  himself  to  be  wear- 
ing a  silken  robe,  which  made  a  pleasing  sound 
as  he  rustled — a  little  late — into  the  front  bench. 
Then  he  would  straighten  an  imaginary  wig  with 
his  left  hand,  and  slowly  wag  the  extended  right, 
to  point  a  series  of  penetrating  questions,  which 
would  leave  a  recalcitrant  hostile  witness  in  a 
condition  of  stuttering  and  helpless  confusion. 
Phrases  made  memorable  by  famous  cross- 
examinations  stuck  in  his  mind — "Would  you  be 
surprised  to  learn — ?"  and  "Pull  yourself  to- 

122 


THE  YOKE 

gather,  Mr  Pigott."  There  didn't  appear  to  be 
anything  particularly  brilliant  in  them;  he  be- 
lieved he  could  invent  others  equally  striking — 
even  (the  thought  seemed  to  border  on  sacrilege, 
and  came,  so  to  speak,  below  his  breath) — even 
more  so.  He  placed  no  limits  to  his  wings.  Some- 
times, listening  in  the  Courts,  he  became  justly  in- 
dignant with  eminent  Counsel  because  they  neg- 
lected to  make  obvious  points — points  which,  as 
he  had  clearly  seen  from  the  beginning,  their  whole 
cross-examination  was  directed  to  bring  out. 
There  were  no  such  omissions  in  the  cases  he  con- 
ducted in  his  bedroom.  Every  point  was  clinched, 
hammered,  driven  firmly  and  relentlessly  home; 
until  the  most  eel-like  witness  became  a  mere 
pitiable  object,  upon  whom  the  judge  looked  sol- 
emnly and  the  jury  cast  glances  of  scarcely-veiled 
amusement.  He  could  hear  the  slight  murmur  of 
spontaneous  applause  (instantly  suppressed)  amidst 
which  he  would  resume  his  seat,  and  could  sympa- 
thetically appreciate  the  thankless  office  confront- 
ing his  "learned  friend"  who  would  rise  to  re- 
examine. 

"And  now,  sir,  will  you  kindly  explain  to  his 
lordship  and  the  jury  how  you  reconcile  that  in- 

123 


THE  YOKE 

teresting  admission  with  the  precisely  contrary 
statement  you  made  ten  minutes  ago?"  He  would 
have  reached  some  such  thrilling  moment  as  that, 
when  the  saying  about  "castles  in  the  air"  would 
recur  to  him.  Then  the  chair  would  be  kicked 
aside  in  disgust,  he  would  straighten  himself 
soberly,  and  the  whole  realistic  histrionic  exercise 
would  be  branded,  summarily  and  contemptuously, 
as  "tomfoolery."  Possibly  it  was.  Yet  there  is 
little  ambition  if  there  are  no  fairy  fancies;  and 
many  a  castle  in  the  air  has  come  eventually  to  be 
built  on  solid  ground.  The  youth  who  has  dreams 
and  is  prone  to  histrionic  exercises  in  his  bedroom 
may  be  safely  expected  to  go  further  than  the  one 
who  tramps  stolidly  along,  absorbed  by  the  day 
and  the  mediocrity  thereof. 

By  this  time  Maurice  had  passed  his  final 
examination  for  the  Bar,  but  he  was  not  eligible 
to  be  "called"  until  another  year  had.  expired. 
In  the  meanwhile,  he  employed  his  time  in  watch- 
ing cases  in  the  Courts,  and  by  a  diligent  attend- 
ance at  the  chambers  of  Mr  Kenyon,  K.C.,  to 
learn  the  practice.  Had  he  been  less  in  earnest 
about  his  work  he  would  probably  have  been 
tempted  to  "slack"  this  portion  of  his  career. 

124 


THE  YOKE 

He  was  under  no  authority  which  could  have  been 
effectually  exercised,  and  he  had  not  to  look  for- 
ward to  his  profession  as  a  means  of  livelihood. 
But  he  knew  that  it  was  no  use  to  have  dreams 
if  you  were  not  prepared  to  go  through  the  mill. 
No  man,  however  great  his  abilities,  ever  reached 
a  position  of  eminence,  in  any  walk  of  life,  who 
had  not  done  his  share  of  hard  work. 

Thus,  by  the  time  the  Courts  rose  in  August,  he 
was  able  to  enjoy  a  holiday  with  a  good  conscience. 
He  went  to  Norway  first,  with  two  fellow  law 
students — enthusiastic  fishermen  like  himself. 
Afterwards  he  joined  Angelica,  who  was  visiting 
in  Scotland.  Towards  the  end  of  September  they 
returned  to  town  together. 

It  was  then,  as  the  long  autumn  evenings 
stretched  into  winter,  that  Maurice  felt,  in  dead 
earnest,  the  steady  pinch  of  his  promise  to 
Angelica ;  or,  to  lay  the  blame  in  its  proper  quarter, 
of  a  social  system  established  in  callous  disregard 
of  natural  law.  Hitherto  the  demand  of  the 
forces  within  him  had  been  spasmodic  and  tem- 
porary; fierce  while  it  lasted,  but  possible  to  be 
overcome  and  forgotten.  Now  it  began  to  lie  on 
him  heavily  and  continuously.  Day  after  day  in 

125 


THE  YOKE 

the  midst  of  all  the  affairs  of  life,  he  was  conscious 
of  a  tremendous,  underlying  necessity — constant, 
unrelaxing — to  live,  to  have  done  with  restraint, 
to  take  his  hand  off  the  brake  and  run  freely  into 
the  open  plains  of  Eden. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected,  perhaps,  that  he  could 
accept  this  condition  of  things  with  a  complacent 
spirit.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  wanton  and  avoid- 
able affliction.  A  physical  malady  he  would  have 
submitted  to  philosophically,  as  part  of  the  human 
heritage.  But  this  was  not  a  malady.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  a  condition  of  vigorous,  effer- 
vescent health.  He  asked  nothing  of  Providence 
but  to  be  allowed  to  live  calmly,  to  do  his  daily 
work  undistracted,  to  lay,  unhampered,  the  foun- 
dations of  his  future.  That  was  not  permitted 
him.  Man  born  of  woman,  he  was  stung  by  the 
call  of  sex. 

Angelica,  who  was  constantly  anxiously  on  the 
watch  for  signs  of  restlessness  in  him,  recognised 
what  he  was  going  through  with  acute  distress. 
She  racked  her  brains  for  means  to  vary  his  life. 
They  dined  in  town  and  went  to  theatres,  lunched 
in  town  and  went  to  picture-galleries;  on  Sundays 
they  made  long  expeditions  into  the  country;  she 

126 


THE  YOKE 

encouraged  him  to  have  the  Grahames  and  other 
friends  to  the  house,  and  to  return  their  visits. 
Maurice  entered  into  these  diversions  with  spirit. 
He  was  as  anxious  as  Angelica  to  bluff  his  senses 
into  quietude.  But  the  underlying  necessity  was 
not  thereby  induced  to  take  its  departure.  More- 
over, Angelica  herself — she  may  or  may  not  have 
suspected  it — had  become  an  unsettling  influence, 
especially  since  the  night  when  she  had  appeared 
on  the  landing  in  her  dressing-gown.  They  played 
tedious  games  of  dummy  bridge;  but  he  saw  her 
soft,  fair  neck  and  shoulders  across  the  table.  And 
her  gently-moving  bosoms  spoke  to  him  with  her 
wrords,  "I  have  not  won  them  yet." 

The  climax  came  one  evening  in  early  Novem- 
ber. They  were  sitting  in  the  morning-room.  They 
had  finished  their  game  at  bridge,  and  Maurice, 
after  cursorily  glancing  at  the  evening  paper  (which 
he  had  already  read),  had  thrown  it  down  beside 
his  chair,  and  for  some  time  had  been  staring  rather 
gloomily  into  the  fire.  Suddenly  he  got  up  and, 
without  speaking,  went  out  of  the  room.  He  re- 
turned in  a  few  minutes  with  his  coat  on  and  his 
hat  in  his  hand.  He  was  rather  pale,  but  his  face 
was  set. 

127 


THE  YOKE 

"I  am  going  out,  Angelica,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  obviously  steadied  with  difficulty. 
"Don't  sit  up  for  me.  I  may  be  late." 

Angelica  rose  slowly  and  turned  towards  him. 
Her  face  had  blanched  and  was  drawn  with  sudden 
pain. 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  unable  to  speak. 
Then  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "Where  are  you 
going,  Maurice?" 

He  could  not  look  at  her.  It  was  harder  even 
than  he  had  expected.  "I  shall  go  and  find 
Grahame,"  he  said  huskily.  "We  shall  probably 
go  to  the  Empire.  We  may — "  He  hesitated, 
then  grappled  with  himself  and  finished  almost 
fiercely,  "We  may  make  a  night  of  it.  I  promised 
to  tell  you." 

"Oh,  Maurice — must  you?" 

There  was  exquisite  volume  of  appeal  and  dis- 
tress in  the  tense,  low  tones.  She  took  a  step 
towards  him. 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  Angelica,  don't  look  at 
me  like  that,"  he  pleaded.  He  didn't  misunder- 
stand her,  nor  pretend  to.  "I've  tried — I've  tried 
hard — for  your  sake.  I  wish  I  were  made  of  any- 
thing but  flesh  and  blood.  I  wish  I  were  made  of 

128 


THE  YOKE 

wax  and  wool,  sawdust,  shavings,  anything,  any- 
thing. "Yes,"  he  said,  low,  but  quite  clearly. 
"Yes— I  must." 

Angelica  was  outwardly  calm  now.  Her  face 
was  still  pale,  but  the  strained  lines  had  left 
it. 

"Try  a  little  longer,  dear,"  she  urged  softly. 

"What's  the  use?"  said  Maurice,  looking  away. 
"One  can't  go  on.  Now  or  a  month  hence — what 
difference  can  it  make?" 

It  was  her  own  thought — the  comprehension  of 
inevitableness  which  had  followed  the  flush  of  re- 
lief when  her  first  fright  had  proved  to  be  ground- 
less, and  which  had  never  left  her.  "Some  woman, 
sooner  or  later."  But  she  tried  to  forget  it,  tried 
to  trample  it  under. 

"You  may  marry,"  she  said.  "That  is  what 
we  are  told  to  do."  She  felt  the  vanity  of  the 
words,  as  exemplified  by  her  own  case,  even  as  she 
uttered  them. 

Maurice  turned  his  eyes  upon  her.  "Marry!" 
he  said. 

"It  is  the  recognised  means  of  meeting  these 
difficulties." 

"Marry!"  repeated  Maurice,  almost  with  de- 
129 


THE  YOKE 

rision.  "Why,  I  haven't  even  been  'called.'  Be- 
sides, I'm  not  in  love." 

"You  may  be  soon."  She  came  quite  close  to 
him.  "Maurice  dear,  try,  for  my  sake,  to  be  brave 
a  little  longer.  Try,  try." 

Maurice  bent  his  eyes  upon  the  ground.     He 

» 

was  very  much  moved.  "You've  been  awfully 
good  to  me,"  he  said.  "It's  horrible  to  hurt  you. 
But  it  would  be  no  good  to  promise  what  I  couldn't 
carry  out.  I  know  I  couldn't.  Do  you  under- 
stand, Angelica?  It's  every  day — every  hour 
almost.  I  don't  want  it — this  craving — I  hate  it 
— but  it  won't  be  driven  away — it  won't  let  me 
alone." 

She  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm.  "Poor 
boy!  I  know."  The  words  fell  on  his  ears  very 
softly. 

"But — but — "  she  cried  suddenly,  straining  her 
hands  in  a  convulsive  clasp,  "I  can't  let  you  do  this, 
Maurice — I  can't  bear  it." 

Maurice  looked  up  a  little  reproachfully.  "I 
don't  think  you  are  quite  fair  to  me,"  he  said. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "I  know  I  only  asked  you 
to  tell  me — to  promise  to  tell  me.  I  said  that 
should  be  all.  You  have  behaved  quite  honestly, 

130 


THE  YOKE 

Maurice.  But — but — I  thought —  What  did  I 
think  ?  Oh,  wait — wait — let  me  think  I" 

She  had  fallen  back  a  pace  and  dropped  a  hand 
heavily  on  the  edge  of  a  table.  Maurice  made  a 
movement  to  her  assistance,  but  with  the  other 
hand  she  motioned  him  back  firmly. 

She  was  keeping  control  of  herself  only  by  a 
powerful  effort  of  will.  Under  a  calm  exterior  she 
was  deeply  agitated.  She  must  come  to  a  decision 
now  and  irrevocably.  The  thought  which  had 
hovered  over  her  mind  as  a  vague  possibility  dur- 
ing the  last  six  months  must  be  squarely  faced  as  a 
concrete  question,  to  be  answered  once  and  for  all 
in  the  next  few  minutes.  There  was  one  way  to 
save  Maurice — one  only.  The  yoke  that  had  lain 
heavily  on  her  all  the  days  of  her  womanhood, 
that  even  now  was  bearing  upon  her — that  yoke 
could  be  broken. 

She  had  carried  her  own  burden  so  long  that 
she  had  become  used  to  its  weight.  It  was 
difficult  to  conceive  herself  relieved  of  it.  Had 
there  been  that  alone  to  be  considered,  she  would 
unquestionably  have  gone  on  carrying  it.  She 
was  prepared,  against  her  judgment,  but  in  accord 
with  custom  and  convenience,  to  live  out  her 


THE  YOKE 

artificial  life.  She  knew  that  if  Maurice  executed 
his  purpose  and  closed  the  front  door  behind  him, 
she  would  be  maid,  not  at  forty  only,  but  at  fifty, 
at  sixty — if  she  lived  so  long — to  the  end  of  her 
days.  She  would  die  without  having  lived,  duly 
complete  her  allotted  span  in  opposition  to  Nature, 
having  faithfully  carried  out  the  arbitrary  will  of 
man. 

It  was  not  her  own  feeling  which  had  power  to 
influence  Angelica,  as  she  stood  with  her  hand  on 
the  table,  her  features  set  in  the  calm  of  exerted 
will,  her  grey  hair  massed  in  deep  waves  about 
her  head — well  as  it  might  have  done — not  the 
certainty  of  what  Maurice  would  leave  behind  were 
he  to  close  the  front  door;  it  was  the  fear — the 
accumulated,  poignant  fear— of  that  which  he 
might  meet  ahead. 

"Don't  think  I  am  doing  this,"  he  said,  speaking 
earnestly,  "because  I  expect  to  find  pleasure;  or 
because  I  wish  to.  It's  not  that.  It's  because  I 
must;  because  life  is  impossible  otherwise." 

"Think  of  the  danger  you  run,"  said  Angelica, 
still  leaning  upon  the  table.  Her  words  came 
with  difficulty.  "I  want  you  to  think  of 
that." 

132 


THE  YOKE 

"I  don't  forget,"  said  Maurice.  "It's  a  risk 
one  has  to  take." 

"Perhaps  for  a  lifetime,  Maurice,"  pleaded 
Angelica,  "utter  breakdown,  utter  ruin,  utter 
misery." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  cried  Maurice.  He  took  a 
step  back  into  the  hall,  with  a  sudden  determina- 
tion to  end  the  interview.  "It's  as  bad  to  drag 
on.  I  can't  work.  I  can't  sleep.  I'm  mad. 
Angelica,  I  must  go." 

He  was  moving  to  the  front  door.  In  another 
moment  it  would  clang  behind  him.  The  fact 
burst  upon  Angelica  with  a  flash  of  realisation,  as 
though  there  had  been  no  preparation.  She  started 
after  him  to  the  door  of  the  sitting-room.  In  that 
final  second  she  had  made  up  her  mind. 

By  a  supreme  effort  she  forced  herself  to  speak 
quietly.  "No,"  she  said.  "Stay.  You  sha'n't 
suffer.  Stay." 


133 


CHAPTER  XI 

MAURICE  closed  the  door  of  the  morning-room. 
It  seemed  unfamiliar  to  him.  He  had  the  feeling 
that  he  had  never  been  in  it  in  his  life  before.  He 
laid  his  hat  and  coat  on  a  chair  mechanically. 

Angelica  had  sunk  into  a  seat  and  bowed  her 
head  in  her  hands.  She  was  trembling.  The 
same  violent  agitation  had  seized  her  as  when  the 
Cunninghams  had  unconsciously  made  her  cog- 
nisant of  their  happy  reunion.  She  had  riven  the 
yoke,  and  every  strained  muscle  was  still  quivering 
after  the  effort. 

Maurice  gazed  at  her  through  an  atmosphere  of 
unreality;  and  suddenly  he  felt  mean — utterly, 
despicably  mean.  He  had  driven  her  to  do  some- 
thing she  did  not  wish  to  do.  In  the  queer  mist 
that  had  enveloped  him  he  wasn't  quite  sure  what 
it  was;  but  whatever  it  might  be,  she  did  not  wish 
to  do  it — he  knew  that  from  her  attitude. 

Then,  all  at  once,  she  looked  up.  The  strain 
and  stress  had  vanished;  she  was  calm;  she  was 
smiling.  More  than  that,  there  was  something  in 

134 


THE  YOKE 

her  face  he  had  never  seen  there  before,  nor  in  any 
other  woman's — something  new  and  delicious — a 
slightly  quivering  light  in  her  soft  grey  eyes.  It 
made  him  thrill.  With  a  bound  of  the  heart  he 
realised  the  subtle  change  that  had  taken  place  in 
their  relationship.  Hitherto  foster-mother  and 
child,  guardian  and  ward;  they  were  now  man  and 
woman,  as  they  had  stood  in  Eden. 

"Come  and  sit  here,"  she  said — "here,  very  near 
me,  and  let  us  talk." 

He  obeyed  quietly.  He  seemed  to  be  walking 
on  air. 

"Maurice,"  she  said,  after  a  slight  pause,  "do 
I  seem  to  you  to  be  very  old  ?" 

"Good  gracious!  no,"  cried  Maurice.  He  for- 
got for  how  short  a  time  he  could  have  replied  so 
emphatically.  "Old!  You  are  perfectly  lovely, 
Angelica." 

Angelica  blushed  slightly  with  pleasure.  "I 
used  to  be  good-looking,"  she  said,  "years  ago. 
But  now  I  have  grown  grey-haired — and  you  are 
so  young."  She  looked  at  him  a  little  pensively. 

"I'm  twenty-two,"  said  Maurice;  "a  very  long 
way  from  the  nursery,  dear."  He  bent  towards 
her. 

135 


THE  YOKE 

"What  did  you  say?"  said  Angelica. 

"A  very  long  way  from  the  nursery,"  repeated 
Maurice. 

"I  thought  you  said  something  else?" 

"So  I  did,"  replied  Maurice,  stoutly. 

"I  like  you  to  say  it,"  said  Angelica;  "I'm  glad." 
She  paused.  "Tell  me  this:  have  you  ever  looked 
upon  me  as  anything  but  a  sort  of  mother  to 
you?" 

Maurice  hesitated. 

"Have  you?"  repeated  Angelica. 

Suddenly  he  slipped  from  his  seat,  knelt  beside 
her,  and  took  her  two  hands  in  his.  "Yes,  I  have, 
— often,  often." 

Angelica  drew  in  her  breath.  She  closed  her 
eyes  and  dropped  her  head  on  the  back  of  the  chair. 
A  shiver  went  through  her.  The  rings  on  her 
fingers  bit  into  the  flesh.  Then,  opening  her  eyes, 
she  spoke  very  low,  "Could  I  make  up  for — for 
those  others?" 

"Make  up  for  them?  Make  up  for  them?" 
Maurice  repeated  the  words  in  a  sort  of  hushed 
whisper,  hardly  daring  to  push  them  to  their  utter- 
most meaning.  Then,  with  a  gesture  of  com- 
plete self-abasement  and  homage,  he  pressed 

136 


THE  JOKE 

his  lips  upon  the  white  hands  that  lay  within  his 
own. 

He  got  up.  "Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I've 
been  a  brute.  I  don't  know  what  I've  been  think- 
ing of." 

Angelica  didn't  look  up.  "You  don't  under- 
stand," she  said. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  exclaimed  Maurice.  "I  know 
that  you  are  willing  to  sacrifice  yourself  to  save 
me.  You've  brought  me  up,  cared  for  me, 
devoted  yourself  to  me  all  my  life — which  I've 
never  half  returned,  never  half  appreciated — and 
now,  to  keep  me  from  harm,  you  are  ready  to 
do  even  this.  Oh,  I  can't  say  what  I  feel.  I 
feel  so  utterly,  horribly  little!  and  you  are  so 
splendid." 

"It's  not  a  sacrifice,"  cried  Angelica,  almost  pas- 
sionately. "I  should  have  less  compunction  if  it 
were.  I  want  it.  I  want  it  more  than  anything 
in  earth  or  heaven.  But — but —  Oh,  I'm  not 
sure,  I'm  not  sure."  Again  her  hands  went  over 
her  face.  And  she  shook. 

Maurice  stood  perfectly  still.  For  a  while  he 
could  not  fully  grasp  the  wonderful  thing  that  was 
happening — had  happened.  Life  seemed  to  have 

137 


opened  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth.     A  paradise 
undreamt-of  lay  before  him. 

Then,  in  a  voice  which  came  from  within  him, 
though  he  hardly  recognised  it,  he  said,  "Why, 
Angelica?  Why  are  you  not  sure?" 

"Whether  it  is  right,"  said  Angelica.  "Whether 
we  ought  to  allow  ourselves  to  do  this." 

Abruptly  Maurice  found  himself.  The  utter 
joy  of  it,  the  transcendent  happiness  that  had  sud- 
denly come  to  be  his — that  was  poured  at  his  feet 
like  golden  pieces — flooded  and  surged  through 
him. 

"I  know  it  is  right,"  he  cried.  "I  don't  care 
for  all  the  books  that  ever  were  written,  or  all  the 
sermons  that  ever  were  preached — I  know  it  is 
right." 

Angelica  removed  her  hands.  She  smiled  at 
him  a  little.  "Perhaps  the  wish  is  father  to  the 
thought,"  she  said.  "Come  back  here,  where  you 
were  before."  She  pointed  to  the  place  on  the 
carpet  where  he  had  been  kneeling. 

Maurice  obeyed  her.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his 
smooth  dark  hair  and  gently  stroked  it. 

"Will  you  despise  me  forever?"  she  said. 

"Despise  you,  Angelica  1" 
138 


THE  YOKE 

"I  suppose  many  men  have  said  that,"  returned 
Angelica,  quietly,  "in  just  the  same  tone.  And 
yet  they  have  despised." 

"Men  are  horrible,"  said  Maurice. 

"Is  this  one  horrible,  I  wonder?"  She  sep- 
arated strands  of  his  hair  with  her  fingers.  "Not 
now.  But  will  he  some  time  be?" 

Maurice  stretched  out  his  arms  till  his  hands 
met  behind  her  waist. 

"Oh,  Angelica,  do  believe  me,"  he  pleaded. 

She  was  in  evening  dress.  She  could  feel  his 
breath  on  her  bosom. 

"I  think  I'm  going  to  try  to,"  she  said.  "No, 
not  yet."  She  pushed  back  his  eager  face.  "Will 
you  always  be  true  to  me,  always  be  content  with 
me,  never  again  seek  to  endanger  your  health  and 
your  career  and  your  self-respect,  never,  never  be- 
come one  of  those  who  can  make  a  trade  of  the 
tenderest  of  human  ties?" 

"Yes,"  cried  Maurice,  straining  towards  her; 
"a  hundred  million  times  yes." 

"You  know  what  you  are  saying?  You  know 
what  you  are  promising?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice  again,  firmly,  deliberately. 

A  moment  more  she  held  him  at  arm's  length, 
139 


THE  YOKE 

and  looked  deeply  into  the  ardent,  handsome  face 
which  was  framed  between  her  palms. 

Abruptly  she  dropped  her  hands.  "Then  you 
may  kiss  me,"  she  said. 

Maurice  paused  at  the  gate  of  Eden  to  give  a 
happy  laugh.  "Why,  I've  often  kissed  you  be- 
fore," he  said. 

"But  not  as  you  are  going  to  do  now,"  said 
Angelica. 

With  sudden  abandon,  her  arms  went  out  and 
over  him.  Her  eyes  were  shining.  "Oh,  my 
dear!  my  dear!"  she  cried.  All  the  might  of  her 
pent-up  womanhood  filled  the  reiteration  of  the  two 
little  words. 

Maurice  drew  her  firmly  to  him  and  kissed  her 
on  the  mouth.  Then,  slowly,  his  lips  travelled 
downwards,  lingered  over  her  neck  and  shoulder; 
and  stayed  there. 


140 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHEN  people  are  happy  there  is  little  to  tell  of 
them.  And  for  the  next  few  months  Angelica  and 
Maurice  were  very  happy.  Indeed,  lest  that  phrase 
should  be  misleading,  we  may  inform  those  of  our 
readers  whose  hearts  may  prompt  a  friendly  con- 
cern in  their  welfare,  that  their  lives  have  continued 
to  run  to  this  day  in  peaceable  channels.  Their 
respective  courses  have  not  been  unaffected  by  cer- 
tain extraneous  events;  but  of  those  in  due  season- 

This,  of  course,  is  not  at  all  as  it  should  be. 
However  unusual  a  book  may  be,  at  least  it  is 
expected  to  align  its  eventual  teaching  with  estab- 
lished thought.  The  author  is  painfully  conscious 
that,  in  being  happy  after  so  grievous  a  deviation 
from  accepted  modes,  Angelica  and  Maurice  quite 
fail  to  meet  standard  requirement,  and  that  in  re- 
cording the  fact  he  is  seriously  presuming  upon  the 
public  patience.  They  should  have  come  to  an 
early  death  or  dragged  out  the  remainder  of  their 
existence  in  suitable  misery.  That  is  the  invariable 
experience  of  books.  But  it  is  not — and  we  may 

141 


THE  YOKE 

thank  God  for  it — it  is  not  the  invariable  experi- 
ence of  life. 

Deeply,  therefore,  as  he  regrets  the  pain  the 
statement  must  bring,  he  is  compelled,  as  a  con- 
scientious narrator,  to  record  that  these  two  people 
were  in  sober  truth  supremely  happy.  Angelica 
steadily  recovered  her  health  and  spirits.  She  was 
relieved  of  anxiety  for  Maurice,  and  her  own  per- 
sonal and  physical  circumstances  were  wonderfully 
improved.  Her  sound  constitution,  in  spite  of  so 
many  years  of  unnatural  conditions,  responded  vig- 
orously, now  that  the  check  on  normal  development 
was  withdrawn,  and  gave  her  not  only  glowing 
health  but  rejuvenation.  Beyond  that,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  lively  mental  exaltation.  Her  life 
was  no  longer  meaningless,  the  reproach  of  en- 
during maidenhood  was  removed,  she  had  fulfilled 
her  destiny,  she  was  a  woman. 

The  perception  of  all  these  changes  became  ex- 
quisite, however,  only  through  the  knowledge, 
which  each  day  made  clearer,  that  Maurice  was 
benefited  to  as  great  an  extent  as  herself  by  their 
new  relations.  The  fits  of  depression,  of  morose- 
ness  almost,  which  had  begun  to  grow  upon  him, 
passed  away.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  had  been 

142 


THE  YOKE 

shackled  to  a  heavy  weight,  and  who  suddenly  finds 
the  chains  snapped  and  himself  free  of  the  incubus. 
It  was  very  sweet  to  Angelica  to  watch  his  gradual 
return  to  a  natural  and  healthy  state  of  mind,  to 
note  the  new  and  vigorous  enthusiasm  which  he 
put  into  everything  he  took  up.  He  would  come 
home  at  night,  fresh  from  some  battle  of  wits  in 
the  Courts,  and  unfold  his  ambitions  with  frank; 
boyish  ardour.  She  did  not  check  them,  only 
attempted  to  order  them  into  logical  sequence. 
She  believed  in  his  future;  but  she  did  not  lose 
sight  of  the  probable  difficulties  and  disappoint- 
ments he  would  have  to  encounter.  It  was  at 
this  period  that  Mr  Kenyon  first  began  to  take 
that  practical  interest  in  his  career  which  led 
eventually  to  his  employing  him  to  "devil"  in  his 
chambers. 

Even  their  games  of  "double-dummy"  lost  their 
old  characteristic  tedium.  They  laughed  over  one 
another's  mistakes  like  a  pair  of  babies. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Angelica,  you've  trumped  your  own 
trick!" 

"May  I  take  it  back?"  said  Angelica. 

"Certainly  not.  Good  gracious!  you  won  the 
last  two  rubbers!" 

*43 


THE  YOKE 

"Then  I  must  have  played  brilliantly,"  she  re- 
torted gaily,  "because  you've  had  all  the  honours." 

"Merely  ornamental,"  said  Maurice,  referring 
to  the  stake. 

"I  don't  think  they  are  at  all  ornamental,"  said 
Angelica,  surveying  the  scoring-block  with  a  smile, 
"unless  you  can  contrive  to  make  better  figures." 

Maurice  amended  a  few  of  them.  This  was  in 
the  middle  of  a  hand. 

"By-the-bye,"  he  said,  tapping  the  block  with 
the  blunt  end  of  his  pencil,  "what  are  we  playing 
for?" 

"Not  for  love,"  replied  Angelica,  laughing,  "un- 
less you'll  let  me  take  that  card  back." 

"Twopence-halfpenny?"  suggested  Maurice. 

"It  will  be  heads  I  win  and  tails  you  lose,  if  we 
do,"  said  Angelica,  "because  I  haven't  got  a  purse, 
and  I  really  can't  go  and  fetch  it  now." 

"All  right,"  said  Maurice,  dropping  the  pencil, 
"nothing." 

Which,  it  may  be  remarked  parenthetically,  was 
their  customary  stake.  Neither  of  them  had  any 
of  the  gambling  spirit.  Occasionally,  rather  by 
way  of  a  joke,  or  if  there  were  others  at  the  table 
to  whom  it  was  a  condition  of  enjoyment,  they 

144 


THE  YOKE 

played  for  something  exceedingly  mild,  and,  in  the 
case  of  one  another,  settled  up  if  they  happened  to 
have  the  necessary  coppers.  The  question  of  the 
morality  of  a  pecuniary  stake  at  cards  is  one  which 
is  being  perpetually  canvassed.  Probably  its  very 
continuance  is  due  to  the  fact  that  no  general  answer 
is  possible.  It  depends  as  much  upon  income  as 
upon  temperament.  If  there  is  a  consciousness  of 
excitement  produced  by  the  desire  to  gain,  it  is  un- 
doubtedly vicious.  One  has  to  discover  the  extent 
to  which  one's  worldly  means  or  native  cupidity 
make  it  possible  to  go  without  such  excitement. 
Few  people,  probably,  can  play  bridge  innocuously 
for  more  than  fivepence  a  hundred. 

Angelica  yawned  during  the  next  hand,  and  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  rubber  she  said  it  was  after 
eleven  and  that  she  was  going  to  bed.  Maurice 
sprang  up  from  the  scoring-card  as  she  was  moving 
to  the  door. 

"You  are  always  in  such  a  hurry,"  he  said. 

He  kissed  her;  then  put  both  his  arms  round 
her  and  spoke  in  he-  ear. 

"A  week!"  cried  Angelica,  with  a  quick  laugh. 
"Forty-eight  hours.  Yes — yes — the  night  before 
last.  Your  arithmetic  is  getting  shocking,  Maurice; 

HS 


THE  YOKE 

you'll  have  to  go  back  to  school."  Suddenly  she 
took  his  face  between  her  hands  and  kissed  him 
fondly. 

A  few  mornings  later — it  was  in  December — 
Angelica  came  down  with  an  open  letter  in  her 
hand.  It  was  from  Mrs  Grahame;  and  its  gist, 
when  finally  extracted,  was  the  announcement  of 
the  intention  of  the  writer  and  her  sister  to  redeem 
an  old  promise  by  spending  a  day  at  Cumberland 
Square — a  promise  so  old  that  Angelica,  for  her 
part,  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  Mrs  Grahame's 
letters  were  characteristic,  however,  so  we  will  beg 
the  reader's  indulgence  to  transcribe  this  one  in  its 
entirety : — 

"Mv  DEAR  ANGELICA, — You  will  be  sorry  to 
hear  that  my  dear  Annie  (Miss  Gaskell)  has  been 
suffering  severely  of  late  from  what  we  supposed 
to  be  neuralgia.  After  vainly  endeavouring  to  re- 
lieve it  by  home  remedies  we  called  in  Dr  Bryce, 
who  prescribed  a  tonic.  She  took  it  for  more  than 
a  fortnight  without,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  the  least 
alleviation.  He  now  thinks  it  well  that  she  should 
see  a  dentist.  Living  in  the  wilds  here,  as  it  were, 

146 


THE  YOKE 

shut  off  from  all  sources  of  information,  it  has  been 
very  difficult  to  select  a  really  reliable  man.  The 
one  I  have  been  accustomed  to  visit  I  have  com- 
pletely lost  confidence  in.  He  stopped  a  tooth  for 
me  two  years  ago  most  unsatisfactorily  and  caused 
me  needless  pain.  Therefore  I  applied  to  Dr  Bryce 
for  advice.  He  has  suggested  a  dentist  in  Brook 
Street,  of  whom  he  speaks  in  high  terms.  I  feel 
very  nervous  at  being  obliged  to  be  guided  by 
second-hand  information  in  a  matter  so  important, 
but  I  really  should  not  have  felt  satisfied  to  allow 
my  sister  to  go  to  a  man  who  had  bungled  in  my 
own  case.  Our  appointment  is  for  Thursday  at 
1 1.30.  Annie  is  very  plucky,  and  would  have  been 
willing  to  go  alone.  But,  though  one  naturally 
shrinks  from  the  ordeal,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  be 
with  her  at  a  time  which  under  any  circumstances 
would  be  very  trying,  and  especially  so  in  the  case 
of  a  total  stranger.  Should  you  be  in  town  on  that 
day  we  should  like  afterwards  to  pay  you  our  too- 
long-deferred  visit.  We  should  reach  Cumberland 
Square  (D.F.)  a  little  before  one,  but  I  am  afraid 
I  should  have  to  beg  to  catch  the  5.55  train  home, 
as  I  find  I  am  very  liable  to  take  cold  if  I  stay  out 
late  at  this  time  of  year.  1  hope  you  will  not 

147 


THE  YOKE 

shrink  from  providing  lunch  for  two  people  who 
may  be  ravenous  after  an  early  breakfast.  We  all 
send  our  cordial  love. — Yours  affectionately, 

"CAROLINE  E.  GRAHAME." 

"It  finishes  with  the  very  best  skittish,"  said 
Maurice,  to  whom  Angelica  had  been  reading  the 
letter  at  the  breakfast-table.  "Luckily  she's  not 
here ;  so  we  don't  have  to  laugh." 

"You  shouldn't  make  fun  of  her,  Maurice,"  said 
Angelica;  "she  is  very  earnest  and  quite  sincere. 
I  really  don't  know  if  it  would  be  fair  to  let  her 
come." 

"Why?"  said  Maurice. 

"She  would  be  so  terribly  upset  if  she  knew" 

The  sequence  of  ideas  induced  in  Maurice  by  this 
observation  could  be  followed  by  its  outward  effect ; 
first  a  contemplative  smile,  then  a  broader  one, 
finally  an  outright  laugh  of  sheer  enjoyment. 

"She  would,''  he  said  profoundly. 

In  the  end  Angelica,  in  spite  of  herself,  was 
obliged  to  smile  too. 

"But  how  can  you  get  out  of  it?"  said  Maurice, 
jabbing  for  a  ball  of  butter. 

"I  hardly  know,"  said  Angelica.  "I  suppose 
148 


1'HE  YOKE 

one  could  manage  to  be  out  of  town  that  day. 
There  are  lots  of  people  I  ought  to  go  and  see." 

Maurice  slowly  spread  his  butter  on  a  piece  of 
toast.  "I  don't  think  you  need  carry  conscience 
to  that  extreme,  Angelica,"  he  said.  "I  don't  sup- 
pose there's  anyone  in  the  world  much  less  likely  to 
contaminate  the  old  lady  than  you." 

He  took  a  bite  out  of  the  toast  and  at  the  same 
moment  happened  to  catch  Angelica's  glance,  and 
was  surprised  to  find  that  she  was  regarding  him 
with  eyes  moist  with  mute  acknowledgment.  It 
is  a  poor  comment  upon  mankind  that,  when  a 
woman  has  bestowed  the  utmost  she  can  upon  one 
of  them,  she  should  be  continually  on  the  alert 
for  signs  that  she  is  losing  his  respect,  continually 
grateful  for  evidences  that  she  is  not.  And  it 
would  probably  make  little  difference  to  her  to  be 
told,  what  is  perhaps  a  platitude,  that  respect  which 
is  capable  of  being  withdrawn  in  such  circumstances 
is  emphatically  not  worth  having. 

Reassured  by  Maurice's  decided  opinion,  An- 
gelica dismissed  her  scruples;  with  the  result  that 
at  a  quarter  to  one  on  the  following  Thursday  the 
two  ladies  duly  arrived.  They  were  in  good  spirits, 

149 


THE  YOKE 

but  suffering  from  slight  winter  indisposition,  man- 
ifested by  a  quantity  of  wraps,  subdued  but  rather 
insistent  coughs,  and,  in  Mrs  Grahame's  case,  by 
a  mysterious  private  preparation  which  she  intro- 
duced into  her  food.  The  first  part  of  their  visit 
was  occupied  by  a  full  and  precise  account  of  their 
interview  with  the  dentist.  This  was  conveyed  to 
Angelica,  it  may  be  scarcely  necessary  to  state, 
through  the  medium  of  Mrs  Grahame.  She  re- 
lated verbatim,  and  without  undue  haste,  what  the 
dentist  had  said,  what  Miss  Gaskell  had  said,  and 
what  she  herself  had  found  it  advisable  from  time 
to  time  to  interject.  She  carefully  recapitulated — 
to  bring  Angelica  up  to  date — the  first  rough  im- 
pressions which  had  been  exchanged  in  the  cab  on 
the  way  to  Cumberland  Square,  and  then  proceeded 
to  give  judicious  tongue  to  the  further  considered 
impressions  which  were  now  available.  Incident- 
ally she  touched  gracefully  upon  Miss  Gaskell's 
fortitude  in  trying  conditions;  remarks  which 
Miss  Gaskell  listened  to  in  deprecatory  and 
slightly  embarrassed  silence.  Having  thus  put 
Angelica  on  a  level  with  themselves,  the  subject 
could  of  course  be  discussed  in  its  various  bearings 
with  mutual  enjoyment.  Its  ramifications  were  by 

150 


THE  YOKE 

no  means  exhausted  when  they  descended  to  the 
dining-room. 

Angelica  gave  them  champagne  at  lunch.  She 
was  very  fond  of  it,  so  was  Mrs  Grahame,  so  was 
Miss  Gaskell;  and  they  all  said  so.  Some  people 
say  they  are  not  fond  of  champagne,  that  they  look 
upon  whisky-and-soda  as  infinitely  preferable;  they 
are  slaves  to  custom — when  custom  puts  it  on  the 
free-list.  Under  its  genial  influence  it  became  pos- 
sible at  length  to  change  the  subject.  By  the  end 
of  the  meal  it  had  drifted  to  servants;  a  subject 
which  Mrs  Grahame  treated  with  fluency  and  with 
many  dubious  shakes  of  her  head.  Her  pessimistic 
view  was  strengthened  by  a  recent  experience  of  her 
own.  Angelica  gathered  that  she  had  been  obliged 
to  dismiss  one  of  her  maids  in  distressing  circum- 
stances. It  appeared  she  had  been  seen,  as 
late  as  half-past  eight  at  night,  in  a  lonely  lane, 
in  the  company  of  a  member  of  the  other 
sex.  That  was  of  course  a  situation  which  called 
for  prompt  and  decisive  action  on  the  part  of  Mrs 
Grahame. 

Angelica  said  she  was  sorry  she  had  been  so 
inconvenienced.  "But  I  think  sometimes,"  she 
added,  "we  are  inclined  to  be  rather  harsh  with 


THE  YOKE 

our  servants.  There  are  always  two  sides  to  a 
question." 

"My  dear,  there  can  only  be  one  to  that,"  said 
Mrs  Grahame,  solemnly. 

Miss  Gaskell  was  also  understood  to  express  the 
view,  in  slightly  different  terms,  that  there  could 
only  be  one  to  that. 

Angelica  said  no  more.  She  knew  the  inutility 
of  words  in  certain  circumstances — indeed,  in  most. 

They  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  Where- 
upon the  two  visitors  produced  work-bags,  from 
which  they  extracted  coils  of  knitting.  They  were 
making  woollen  vests  for  the  Kaslemere  Guild  of 
Needlework.  They  said  (through  Mrs  Grahame) 
that  they  thought  everyone  should  always  have 
some  occupation;  that  time  was  too  precious  to 
spend  in  idleness;  that  it  was  not  the  purpose  for 
which  we  were  put  upon  earth  and  given  hands. 
Their  hostess's  hands  at  the  moment  were  empty; 
of  which  Mrs  Grahame  was  quite  aware. 

Angelica  accepted  the  quiet  rebuke  and  procured 
some  fancy-work.  Then  she  looked  at  the  clock 
— without  sighing,  without  any  outward  token  of 
weariness,  without,  indeed,  any  inward  recognition 
that  she  felt,  or  was  likely  to  feel,  weary.  Still, 

152 


THE  YOKE 

she  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  ten  minutes  to  two. 
Tea  was  at  four.  Two  hours  and  ten  minutes  of 
solid,  uninterrupted  conversation !  Angelica  bent 
her  head  to  her  work,  and  asked  if  Christmas  was 
bringing  a  great  many  social  festivities  at  Hasle- 
mere. 

Festivities  accounted  for  the  first  half-hour;  some 
friends  of  Mrs  Grahame,  whom  Angelica  had  met 
once,  many  years  before,  occupied  the  second. 
Then  Angelica  rose  and  changed  her  seat.  The 
second  seat  was  no  more  comfortable  than  the  first, 
nor  was  it  any  better  placed;  simply  the  necessity 
for  movement  of  some  kind  had  become  impera- 
tive. She  glanced  out  of  the  window.  The  square 
wore  its  accustomed  atmosphere  of  peaceful  dignity 
— in  the  grey  winter  afternoon  it  amounted  almost 
to  solemnity.  Two  ladies  were  leaving  a  house  on 
the  north  side;  otherwise  it  was  empty.  If  only 
she  could  have  walked  once  round  it — once  to  the 
church  and  back  again ! 

Her  visitors  did  not  appear  to  find  it  at  all  irk- 
some to  sit  in  one  position  a  whole  afternoon ;  they 
worked  placidly  and  talked  placidly,  and  were  en- 
joying themselves  thoroughly.  Mrs  Grahame, 
seeing  Angelica  looking  out  of  the  window,  said 

153 


THE  YOKE 

how  much  nicer  it  was  to  have  an  open  space  and 
trees  to  look  upon,  rather  than  merely  the  opposite 
side  of  a  street.  Then  she  asked  if  their  old  house 
was  occupied,  and  by  whom.  Then  she  launched 
upon  a  sea  of  reminiscence.  This  was  punctuated 
by  subdued  sighs  or  by  amused,  semi-pensive  laughs 
and  "Oh,  dear,  dears!"  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  resurrected  matter.  Angelica  found  herself 
here  upon  more  favourable  terms.  The  conversa- 
tion quite  frequently  referred  to  things  in  which 
she  had  taken  a  personal  interest.  She  reminisced, 
and  Miss  Gaskell  reminisced.  She  joined  in  the 
mirth  and  echoed  the  sighs;  and  in  this  pleasant 
revelry  the  afternoon  gradually  wasted  away.  At 
four  o'clock  came  tea.  After  tea  came  Maurice. 

He  had  hurried  home  on  purpose  to  see  the 
visitors  from  Haslemere.  It  had  not  been  very 
easy  to  do  it,  since  a  case  in  which  he  was  interested 
was  reaching  a  crucial  point  at  the  time  he  had  been 
obliged  to  leave.  But  he  recognised  that  it  was 
his  business  to  be  back  in  time  to  greet  a  lady  who 
had  often  been  his  hostess,  and  who  besides  was  the 
mother  of  Christopher  and  Cecil. 

"It's  Maurice!"  said  Mrs  Grahame,  with  some 
surprise.  (The  family  had  reverted  by  this  time 

154 


THE  YOKE 

to  the  Christian  name.)  "Can  you  get  away  from 
the  office  as  early  as  this,  Maurice?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  you," 
said  Maurice,  shaking  hands  briskly.  "But  I  don't 
go  to  an  office,  Mrs  Grahame." 

He  then  shook  hands  with  Miss  Gaskell  and 
inquired  after  her  neuralgia.  With  Angelica  he 
exchanged  a  glance  of  greeting,  but  no  words. 

Mrs  Grahame  quietly  bided  her  time  during 
these  proceedings.  There  was  a  matter  on  her 
soul,  however,  which  she  had  no  intention  should 
remain  unexpressed.  She  didn't  like  to  be  cor- 
rected. Moreover,  she  had  used  the  wrong  word 
deliberately,  knowing  the  right  one. 

"My  dear  husband,"  she  said,  inclining  her  head 
reverently,  "went  to  an  office  all  his  life,  and  he 
invariably  called  it  such." 

"Perhaps  it  was  one,"  said  Maurice,  principally 
because  it  seemed  to  be  the  only  thing  to  say. 

"It  was  a  room,"  said  Mrs  Grahame,  bridling, 
"with  chairs  in  it  and  a  large  desk  covered  with 
papers.  But  I  suppose  you  would  consider  it  be- 
neath you  to  call  such  a  room  an  office?" 

Maurice  took  it  quite  good-humouredly.  "It's 
awfully  strange,"  he  said,  "how  words,  meaning 

155 


THE  YOKE 

practically  the  same  thing,  often  convey  quite  dif- 
ferent impressions.  There's  a  man's  digs,  for  in- 
stance— the  place  where  he  puts  up,  you  know- 
to  call  them  'chambers'  sounds  rather  dignified; 
'apartments'  seems  sea-sidy  and  gimcrack;  'rooms' 
is  between  the  two;  'lodgings'  is  utterly  beyond 
thought." 

"Will  you  have  some  tea,  Maurice?"  said 
Angelica,  interposing  to  release  him. 

"I  don't  see  any,"  said  Maurice,  looking  round. 

"I  can  easily  send  for  it,  you  stupid  boy,"  she 
said,  laughing.  "It  has  only  just  gone  down." 

Now  whether  it  was  the  particular  tone  of 
Angelica's  voice  as  she  said  this,  or  the  momentary 
flash  of  mutual  understanding  when  Maurice  first 
entered  the  room,  or  the  slight  irritation  left  by  the 
"office"  question,  or  whether  it  was  merely  her 
unfortunate  inability  in  any  circumstances  to  keep 
her  fingers  out  of  other  people's  pies — whatever 
the  cause,  Mrs  Grahame  suddenly  conceived  a 
duty.  It  was  a  duty  which  most  people  would 
have  shirked;  of  that  she  was  fully  conscious.  It 
was  also  a  duty  which  most  people  would  have 
considered  to  infringe  good  taste.  But  Mrs  Gra- 
hame soared  above  questions  of  taste  where  duties 


were  concerned.  She  took  up  her  knitting  and  for 
a  few  moments  plied  her  needles  in  thoughtful 
silence ;  then  she  coughed  lightly  and  began. 

"I  have  sometimes  wondered,  Angelica,"  she 
said,  in  the  low,  even  tones  she  adopted  on  such 
occasions,  keeping  her  eyes  bent  upon  her  knitting 
and  occasionally  turning  the  work,  "if  you  have 
considered  the  wisdom,  now  that  Maurice  is  no 
longer  a  boy,  of  continuing  to  live  alone  together. 
It  frequently  happens  that  things  remain  hidden 
from  ourselves  which  are  plain  to  others,  and  so  I 
feel  that  I  owe  it  to  you,  as  an  old  friend,  to  speak 
frankly.  We  sometimes  allow  an  indiscreet  posi- 
tion to  grow  upon  us  unconsciously,  as  it  were. 
During  Maurice's  boyhood  the  arrangement  was 
a  suitable  and  excellent  one;  but  since  he  has  be- 
come a  man,  and  especially  since  he  has  come  to 
live  permanently  in  London,  it  is  difficult  for  your 
friends  to  avoid  recognising  that  the  position  is 
no  longer  the  same.  You  are  not  old,  nor  even 
elderly,  and  you  have  retained  your  good  looks 
almost  unimpaired.  You  are  still  a  very  attrac- 
ive  woman."  (Mrs  Grahame  felt  herself  con- 
scientiously justified  by  the  facts  in  throwing  in 
this  sugar-plum.)  "You  mustn't  suppose  that  I, 

157 


THE  YOKE 

or  any  of  your  friends,  could  for  a  moment  impute 
the  least  indiscretion  to  either  of  you.  But  there 
are  neighbours,  acquaintances,  those  who  know  you 
less  well,  who  might  receive  a  different  impression. 
That  is  a  consideration  which  should  not  be  ig- 
nored. I  do  think  we  owe  it  to  ourselves  to  see 
that  there  should  be  no  occasion  for  comment,  how- 
ever unworthy.  This  subject  has  troubled  me  of 
late  and  I  have  given  much  thought  to  it.  My 
own  feeling  is  that  the  most  satisfactory  solution 
of  your  difficulty  would  be  to  engage  a  discreet 
companion  to  live  with  you — preferably  an  elderly 
widow  lady.  Such  a  course  would  have  a  three- 
fold advantage.  It  would  remove  your  position 
from  the  risk  of  misconception  and  provide  you 
with  pleasant  companionship  during  Maurice's  ab- 
sences; and,  at  the  same  time,  it  would  make  you 
the  means  of  relieving  one  of  the  most  painful  of 
all  classes  of  distress — perhaps  the  most  so  of  any 
• — that  of  cultured  penury." 

Mrs  Grahame  ceased — quietly  as  she  had  begun 
— and  there  supervened  one  of  those  pauses  which 
only  she  was  capable  of  producing,  and  which  she 
distinctly  enjoyed.  They  suggested  that  she  had  been 
effective,  that  her  words  had  not  fallen  on  dull  ears. 

158 


THE  YOKE 

When  it  had  lasted  sufficiently  long  for  the 
subject  to  be  decently  changed,  Miss  Gaskell  said, 
a  little  tremulously,  that  she  wondered  how  long 
it  would  take  to  drive  to  Waterloo. 

Maurice  cleared  his  throat  and  replied  that  he 
thought  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  allowing 
for  possible  blocks  and  for  comfortable  time  at 
the  station. 

Thereupon  all  was  thrown  into  a  breathless 
fluster  of  preparation  for  departure — hurried 
storing  away  of  knitting  paraphernalia,  trippings 
up  and  down  stairs,  wrapping  and  rewrapping  of 
numberless  woollen  comforts,  urgent  whistles  for  a 
cab. 

When  Maurice  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
after  packing  the  visitors  into  a  four-wheeler  (a 
hansom  was  considered  unsafe)  he  found  Angelica 
kneeling  before  the  fire,  brushing  the  hearth.  He 
went  and  knelt  beside  her.  Her  disengaged  hand 
was  hanging  down.  Maurice  curled  his  fingers 
round  the  tips  of  hers  and  squeezed  them.  After 
a  time,  still  continuing  to  brush  the  bars,  Angelica 
gently  returned  the  pressure. 


159 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  Christopher  Grahame  proposed  to  walk 
abroad,  considerable  preparation  was  called  for. 
His  patent-leather  boots  had  to  be  inspected, 
dusted,  and  drawn  upon  his  feet,  his  tie  to  be  re- 
tied,  his  overcoat  to  be  carefully  picked  and 
brushed;  his  silk  hat  had  to  undergo  an  operation 
involving  the  employment  of  a  velvet  pad,  a  silk 
handkerchief  and  a  warm  fire ;  finally  his  hands  had 
to  be  enveloped  in  a  pair  of  grey  gloves.  It 
occupied  from  ten  to  twenty  minutes,  according 
to  the  anterior  condition  of  the  various  articles  of 
attire. 

He  completed  these  various  processes  to  his 
satisfaction  one  afternoon  early  in  January,  about 
three  weeks  after  his  mother's  visit  to  Cumber- 
land Square,  picked  up  an  umbrella,  so  tightly 
rolled  that  it  looked  like  a  toy  in  his  vigorous  grasp, 
and  eventually  emerged  upon  the  already  lighted 
streets.  He  walked  down  Shaftesbury  Avenue 
and  threaded  his  way  across  Piccadilly  Circus  with 
the  assured  ease  of  the  native  Londoner.  He  car- 
ried his  head  high  and  walked  with  an  exuberant 

1 60 


THE  YOKE 

step.  He  had  just  heard  that  he  had  passed  reason- 
ably well  into  Sandhurst.  The  occasion,  therefore, 
was  one  for  some  natural  lightness  of  heart. 
It  was  also  one,  as  he  conceived,  for  some  legitimate 
indulgence  in  temporal  delights.  Accordingly, 
he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Temple,  to  enlist  the 
co-operation  of  Maurice  Heelas  in  that  enterprise. 
Maurice  had  unaccountably  failed  him  of  late.  To- 
day he  was  firmly  determined  to  accept  no  refusal. 

When  he  reached  Mr  Kenyon's  chambers  it  was 
five  o'clock.  Maurice  was  seated  with  the  latter's 
clerk  in  a  dingy  and  rather  musty  room  lined  with 
books.  The  clerk  was  reading  the  evening  paper; 
Maurice  was  writing  at  a  table  beneath  an  incan- 
descent gaslight,  with  open  volumes  surrounding 
his  blotting-pad  and  standing  on  the  floor  beside 
him,  his  places  kept  by  the  table  legs. 

"Sit  down,  Grahame,"  he  said,  looking  up  as 
the  latter  entered.  "I  can't  talk  just  yet." 

Grahame  obeyed,  and  addressed  himself  amiably 
to  the  clerk. 

"Oh,  don't  talk,  there's  a  good  fellow,"  said 
Maurice;  "this  is  beastly  ticklish." 

"Right  you  are,"  said  Grahame,  cheerfully. 
"Anything  in  the  paper,  Mr  Burkinshaw?" 

161 


THE  YOKE 

Mr  Burkinshaw  politely  handed  him  a  portion 
of  it.  Christopher  was  coming  to  an  end  of  the 
more  interesting  of  the  advertisements,  when  an 
inner  door  suddenly  opened  and  Mr  Kenyon  him- 
self appeared.  He  was  a  tall,  good-looking  man 
of  fifty,  with  clean-cut  features  and  thin  dark  hair. 
He  nodded  to  Grahame,  whom  he  had  seen  in  his 
chambers  before,  and  stood  for  a  few  minutes  in 
conversation  with  his  clerk.  Then  he  looked  at 
Maurice. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Heelas?"  he  said. 

"I'm  writing  the  opinion  for  Campbell's,"  said 
Maurice.  "I  don't  think  they've  much  of  a  case, 


sir." 


"Neither  do  I;  but  just  worth  fighting,  per- 
haps." 

"Belloc  v.  Foster  is  dead  against  them,"  said 
Maurice,  "and  so  is  Hart  v.  Pritchard." 

"Yes,  but  isn't  there  one  of  Whitley's  decisions 
which  favours  them  to  some  extent?" 

"Smith  v.  Cummings"  said  Maurice;  "that  was 
overruled  on  appeal." 

"Was  it?"  The  barrister  became  suddenly  alert. 
"Let  me  look." 

Maurice  handed  him  the  volume  of  Reports. 
He  put  on  a  pair  of  eye-glasses  and  read  the  judg- 

162 


THE  YOKE 

ment.  "Yes,"  he  said,  replacing  the  book  on 
the  table,  "that's  unfortunate.  What  are  you 
saying?" 

"I'm  making  it  rather  gloomy,"  said  Maurice. 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  said  Mr  Kenyon. 

He  put  on  his  hat.  "I  am  not  coming  back," 
he  said  to  his  clerk,  and  passed  through  the  outer 
door. 

"National  Anthem,"  said  Grahame,  rising  with 
relief.  "You'll  have  to  chuck  it,  Heelas.  Mr 
Burkinshaw  isn't  going  to  stay  much  longer." 

"A  few  moments  only,"  said  Mr  Burkinshaw, 
folding  his  paper.  "I  rarely  remain  later  than 
half-past  five  during  recess." 

"Only  when  Mr  Kenyon  does,"  commented 
Chris,  mentally.  He  handed  back  his  share  of  the 
paper,  with  thanks. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mr  Burkinshaw.  "Remark- 
able case  this  Clapham  poisoning  affair." 

"Regular  Bluebeard,"  said  Chris. 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr  Burkinshaw.  "I  remarked 
to  my  wife  that  it  resembled  one  of  those  tales  from 
the  Arabian  Nights." 

He  completed  his  preparations  for  departure, 
leaving  Maurice  with  no  alternative  but  to  fol- 
low his  example.  With  the  keys  in  his  hand  he 

163 


THE  YOKE 

politely  ushered  the  two  young  men  into  the  cor- 
ridor. 

Out  in  the  court  Grahame  broke  his  news. 

Maurice  stopped  dead.  "Good  man !"  he  cried 
enthusiastically. 

"I  got  in  forty-second,"  said  Grahame.  "Oh, 
it'll  do!" 

"Rather!"  said  Maurice.  "My  dear  fellow, 
I'm  most  awfully  glad."  He  couldn't  have  been 
more  genuinely  pleased  had  he  just  scored  a  vic- 
tory in  his  first  case.  "I  told  Angelica  you  meant 
to  get  in." 

They  turned  into  the  Strand.  "I've  been  think- 
ing," said  Grahame,  "that  a  little  decorous  dissipa- 
tion should  celebrate  the  event." 

Maurice  laughed.  "Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so.  But 
what  do  you  mean  exactly?  I  don't  want  to  drink, 
Grahame." 

"Not  unreasonably,"  said  Grahame.  "We'll 
go  to  the  club  and  have  a  game  of  billiards;  then 
dinner  somewhere  and  a  music-hall;  a  little  supper 
afterwards,  perhaps.  We'll  leave  the  rest  to  in- 
spiration." 

"I  scarcely  see  my  way  through  all  that,"  said 
Maurice,  with  a  laugh,  "especially  the  inspiration. 
But  I  don't  mind  making  a  beginning." 

164 


THE  YOKE 

Accordingly  he  despatched  a  telegram  to 
Angelica,  announcing  his  intention  to  remain  in 
town  until  late  in  the  evening.  She  read  it  with- 
out the  least  misgiving.  She  would  have  been 
sorry,  possibly  her  pride  would  have  been  hurt  by 
so  abrupt  an  intimation,  but  she  would  not  have 
been  anxious  had  the  telegram  told  her  he  was 
going  to  stay  away  a  week. 

They  played  two  games  of  billiards,  and  after- 
wards dined  at  a  small  restaurant  in  Soho;  one 
for  which  Grahame  felt  a  peculiar  affection,  re- 
garding it  as  a  discovery  of  his  own.  Its  prin- 
cipal merits  were  a  really  excellent  cuisine,  a  lack 
of  display,  and  comparatively  moderate  charges. 
There  were  private  rooms  in  it  where  you  could 
dine  undisturbed,  served  by  a  waiter  who  could 
be  relied  upon  not  to  return  after  leaving  the  cof- 
fee. This  was  an  advantage  of  which  Grahame 
had  more  than  once  informed  Maurice;  adding 
that  it  was  useful  to  know  a  really  good  place 

^ 

in  case  of  emergency — so  many  men  didn't.  They 
split  a  bottle  of  Goulet  '93.  Neither  of  them 
could  have  detected  any  difference  between  '93  and 
'95.  But  they  cheerfully  paid  three  shillings  a 
bottle  more  for  the  former,  Grahame  remarking 
that  it  was  necessary  to  be  very  careful  how 

165 


THE  YOKE 

you    "touched"    '95,    which    was    an    "unequal" 
year. 

After  dinner  they  turned  into  one  of  the  larger 
music-halls.  They  decorously  sat  through  the  first 
ballet,  and  then,  at  Grahame's  suggestion,  took  a 
"stroll  behind."  Maurice  knew  exactly  what  this 
meant.  But  he  hadn't  the  heart,  on  this  evening, 
to  fail  his  friend.  Moreover,  he  felt  perfectly 
secure  against  even  mental  unfaithfulness  to 
Angelica.  The  "stroll  behind"  had  only  been  in 
progress  a  few  minutes,  when  they  met  two  ladies 
of  Christopher's  acquaintance,  to  whom  he  pre- 
sented Maurice  with  some  playful  elaboration  by 
an  assumed  name.  The  ladies  knew  it  to  be  as- 
sumed and  did  not  resent  it.  They  were  of  the 
demure  school.  That  is  to  say,  their  hair  was 
parted  in  the  middle  and  drawn  over  their  temples, 
and  they  viewed  the  world  in  general,  and  our  two 
friends  in  particular,  with  bent  heads  and  raised 
eyes.  Their  dresses — if  one  may  be  guilty  of 
paradox — were  of  ostentatious  simplicity. 

"Have  you  just  come  up?"  said  the  one  whom 
Maurice  found  was  assigned  to  his  peculiar  charge. 

"Up  where?"  said  Maurice. 

"Up  to  town." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Maurice,  "I  live  here." 
1 66 


THE  YOKE 

The  upward  glance  became  exceedingly  sly. 
"Who  are  you  getting  at?"  she  asked  facetiously. 
"Do  you  think  I  shouldn't  remember  you?  I've 
never  seen  you  before." 

"I  don't  often  come  to  music-halls,"  said  Mau- 
rice. "I  used  to  come  occasionally  at  one  time, 
but  not  lately." 

"Turned  over  a  new  leaf,"  said  the  girl,  laugh- 
ing. "And  now  you  can't  be  good  any  longer,  so 
you're  going  to  turn  back  again.  It's  only  human 
nature,  isn't  it?"  She  cast  him  a  very  compre- 
hensive glance.  "Well,  what  are  you  going  to  ask 
me  to  have?" 

The  four  of  them  drifted  into  a  raised  room  at 
the  back  of  the  auditorium.  There  was  a  bar  at 
one  corner;  the  remaining  floor  space  was  occupied 
by  easy-chairs  and  small  circular  tables.  From 
here  they  had  a  difficult  glimpse  of  the  stage  over 
the  heads  and  between  the  shoulders  of  the  people 
in  front.  A  waiter  supplied  their  table  with  the 
liquids  which  Maurice  had  duly  applied  for,  and 
conversation  proceeded  vivaciously.  But  the  com- 
mon mental  ground  on  which  the  two  parties 
met  was  appreciably  of  limited  extent.  The  flow 
of  gaiety  was  kept  up,  so  far  as  Maurice  was 
concerned,  by  an  effort  which  constantly  held  in 

167 


THE  JOKE 

view  an  inevitable  reaction;  while  the  repartee  of 
the  ladies,  though  very  ready,  contained  little  that 
was  strikingly  original.  They  consistently  met 
spirited  sallies  by  asking  to  be  given  "a  chance"; 
they  repeatedly  referred  to  the  fact  that  they 
were  not  "born  yesterday";  and  they  hinted 
more  than  once  that  Christopher  was  "a  bit 
thick." 

Maurice  was  no  spoil-sport.  He  had  joined 
Grahame  to  show  his  appreciation  of  the  latter's 
success,  and  he  had  not  the  least  intention  to  be  a 
wet  blanket.  He  maintained  his  share  of  the 
conversation  to  the  best  of  his  ability  and  kept  a 
laughing  face;  but  inwardly  he  was  shivering — 
shivering  to  remember  that  only  a  few  months  ago 
he  was  actually  in  the  jaws  of  this.  He  looked 
around  him — at  the  well-dressed  men,  callous  and 
blase,  moving  leisurely  about,  or  sitting  with  a 
polished  boot  upon  a  neighbouring  chair,  flicking 
cigarette-ash  to  the  floor;  at  the  women,  all  of  one 
class,  powdered,  flamboyant,  bold-eyed.  It  was  in- 
conceivable almost,  so  he  felt  now,  that  all  this 
could  ever  have  appealed  to  him,  that  he  could  have 
seen  it  at  any  time  otherwise  than  as  it  was. 

When  the  pace  began  to  fail  Grahame  ordered 
a  fresh  supply  of  liquid  stimulant,  and  when  the 

168 


THE  YOKE 

effect  had  again  worn  off — by  which  time  the  hall 
was  thinning — he  suggested  going  somewhere  to 
supper.  Silence,  which  is  merely  uncomfortable 
among  ordinary  casual  acquaintance,  is  unendur- 
able between  people  met  as  were  these,  a  dreaded 
thing  to  be  warded  off  by  all  arms.  With  silence 
comes  thought.  If  you  don't  laugh  you  must  cry, 
or  come  near  it.  So  Grahame's  suggestion  was  ac- 
claimed with  relief,  and  the  stream  of  chaff  and 
chatter  flowed  on  with  fresh  vigour  as  they  all 
rose  and  moved  into  the  auditorium.  On  the  stairs, 
the  simple  black  skirts  were  modestly  flourished, 
to  disclose  well-turned  ankles  and  a  wealth  of  white 
lace  frilling.  In  such  order  they  emerged  upon 
the  street,  the  very  picture  of  joyous  insouciance, 
the  two  demure  ladies,  each  beside  her  cavalier, 
rippling  along,  with  rustling  under-silks,  glancing 
upward. 

They  entered  a  restaurant  of  the  splendid  type' — 
streaming  lights  without,  soft  shades  and  sumptu- 
ousness  within,  where  obsequious  attendants  in 
gorgeous  liveries,  with  nothing  to  do,  stood  about 
in  the  vestibule.  Maurice  could  never  pass  these 
people  without  a  sense  of  shame.  He  knew  that 
we  have  no  right  to  turn  thinking  human  beings 
into  gilded  automatons  for  our  aggrandisement; 

169 


THE  YOKE 

that  to  pay  fellow-creatures  to  make  us  obeisance 
is  undiluted  vulgarity. 

So  far  as  that  goes,  he  knew,  or,  at  least,  he 
suspected  in  his  inmost  soul — though  he  didn't  dare 
to  think  too  closely  about  it — that  one-half  of 
humanity  has  no  moral  title  to  require  the  other 
half  to  wait  upon  it.  Most  of  us  who  happen  to 
have  been  born  with  the  means,  or  with  the  oppor- 
tunity or  ability  to  acquire  the .  means,  to  secure 
these  services,  take  them  as  a  matter  of  course. 
And  it  may  perhaps  be  said,  in  our  favour,  that 
we  have  been  given  hands  and  minds  capable  of 
better  employment,  employment  more  generally 
beneficial  than  trivial  labour,  which  would  other- 
wise be  lost  or  interrupted.  So  far  we  may  salve 
our  consciences.  But  we  are  not  content  to  stop 
there — we  are  not  content  merely  to  bend  the 
bodies  of  our  fellows  to  our  services;  we  must  de- 
grade their  spirits  also — as  these  automatons. 
Even  bishops — heads  of  great  religious  orders — 
are  not  ashamed  to  set  up  stiff-backed  mutes,  with 
arms  precisely  folded,  on  the  box  seats  of  their 
carriages. 

And  then  we  are  surprised  that  they  revolt, 
surprised  at  social  upheavals  and  reigns  of  ter- 
ror, surprised  that  our  own  domestic  servants  are 

170 


THE  YOKE 

difficult  to  obtain.  We  forget  that  household 
service  in  its  present  form  is  literally  imprison- 
ment, whose  victims  are  under  constant  surveil- 
lance, are  deprived  of  fresh  air  and  exercise,  can- 
not raise  their  voices  even  in  the  parts  of  the  house 
particularly  assigned  to  them  without  reproof, 
must  wear  a  livery  of  servitude  and  are  permitted 
social  intercourse  and  recreation  only  at  fixed 
weekly  intervals,  under  restrictions.  It  is  rather 
difficult  to  realise  all  that  is  implied  by  that — the 
feeling  of  being  caged,  bottled  up  under  one  roof 
from  day  to  day  and  week  to  week  and  month  to 
month.  We  could  lighten  it;  but  we  have  be- 
come so  inured  to  being  waited  upon  that  we  are 
ashamed  to  perform  even  small  mechanical  offices 
for  ourselves.  Consternation  reigns  in  a  family 
at  the  mention  of  the  shocking  possibility  of 
the  house  being  temporarily  left  without  someone 
— a  dependent  someone — to  "open  the  front  door." 
It  is  that,  and  that  alone,  which  keeps  maids  within 
doors  during  the  whole  of  a  bright  summer  after- 
noon. 

Practical  relief  from  commonplace  daily  neces- 
sities we  may  be  entitled  to  receive  from  those  in 
a  humbler  position,  but  not  this  magnification  of 
our  importance  at  the  expense  of  our  fellows. 

171 


THE  YOKE 

Yet  such  is  the  littleness  of  humanity  that  the  for- 
mer is  less  hardly  dispensed  with.  We  can  pri- 
vately wash  up  our  own  tea-things  at  a  pinch,  but 
we  cannot  carry  the  tray  a  few  yards  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  visitor.  Similarly,  our  supper-party — 
for  the  interruption  of  whose  sprightly  progress 
during  this  digression  we  ask  the  reader's  forgive- 
ness— found  an  abundance  of  automatons  in  the 
vestibule  and  a  paucity  of  waiters  in  the  restau- 
rant. The  manager  knew  his  patrons;  better  to 
wait  for  your  supper,  if  your  consequence  is  ade- 
quately recognised,  than  a  quickly-served  meal  and 
no  kow-tow. 

He  would  have  been  horrified  by  any  comparison 
with  those  inferior  places  of  refreshment  where 
people  actually  shout  for  attendance ;  but,  neverthe- 
less, there  was  quite  a  suggestion  of  a  scramble  in 
the  handing  and  removal  of  the  various  dishes. 
The  intervals  between  the  courses  were  especially 
irksome  to  Maurice,  for  he  looked  upon  the 
completion  of  the  meal  as  all  that  now  divided  him 
from  the  fair  fulfilment  of  his  compact  with 
Grahame.  So  he  was  considerably  disconcerted  to 
gather  from  his  companion's  remarks  that  he  was 
supposed  to  have  committed  himself  to  further  ad- 
ventures. 

172 


THE  YOKE 

"Oh,  I'm  not  coming  home  with  you,"  he  said, 
hastily. 

"What !"  The  girl  shot  at  him  a  quick  flash  of 
indignation — of  anger. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  Maurice.  "I  didn't 
know  you  were  assuming  that." 

"But  you've  been  talking  to  me  all  evening." 

Maurice  couldn't  deny  it.  Moreover,  he  had  a 
sudden  vivid  perception  of  the  matter  from  the 
girl's  point  of  view. 

"You  think  I've  treated  you  badly?"  he 
said. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?" 

He  meditated. 

"Would  you  still  think  so,"  he  asked  a  little 
dubiously,  "if  I  gave  you — well — a  couple  of 
sovereigns?" 

"What  for?" 

"For  a  present." 

"For  nothing  at  all?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  even  a  kiss?" 

"No." 

"Treated  me  badly!"  cried  the  girl,  with  vivid 
irony.  "Not  much!  I  should  think  it  was  a  bit 
of  all  right." 

173 


THE  YOKE 

"Even  better  than  if  I  came  with  you?"  ven- 
tured Maurice. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said  guardedly. 

"Wouldn't  you  prefer  my  room  to  my  com- 
pany? You  may  as  well  confess.  It  won't  make 
any  difference."  He  bent  a  little  towards  her, 
smiling  calmly. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  admitted,  "I'm  rather  tired; 
and  one  doesn't  get  much  rest  at  nights." 

"Shake  hands,  then,"  said  Maurice.  He  took 
her  hand  and  left  the  two  coins  in  the  palm.  "Now 
we  are  both  satisfied.  ...  I  wish  you  hadn't 
to  do  it." 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  girl. 

She  looked  at  him,  for  the  first  time,  with  some 
genuine  feeling,  as  a  being  who  possessed  heart  and 
soul  as  well  as  a  body.  Then  another  aspect  of 
the  matter  struck  her. 

"But  don't  you  want  to  kiss  me?"  she  asked, 
with  a  note  of  incredulity. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Maurice,  laughing. 

Suddenly  her  manner  changed.  Her  profes- 
sional powers  had  come  into  question.  She  was 
on  her  mettle.  She  glanced  round  the  room  to  see 
if  they  were  watched.  Finding  that  most  of  the 
other  parties  had  already  left  and  that  those  who 

174 


THE  YOKE 

remained  were  too  preoccupied  to  observe  their 
secluded  corner,  while  Christopher  and  his  com- 
panion were  engaged  in  vivacious  conversation  on 
their  own  account,  she  propped  her  plump  fore- 
arms, bare  to  the  elbow,  on  the  table,  and  rested 
her  chin  on  her  hands.  Then  she  leaned  towards 
Maurice  and  pouted  her  lips,  smiling  seductively. 

"Kiss  me  nicely,"  she  said,  "there's  no  one  look- 
ing." 

Maurice  hesitated.  He  did  not  want  to  wound 
her  feelings.  She  was  decidedly  pretty,  too — 
just  now  even  winsome — and  she  was  not  painted, 
only  lightly  powdered.  He  would  not  have 
objected  to  kiss  her.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had 
no  desire  to  do  so.  Angelica  had  forged  him 
impervious  armour  against  such  blandishments. 
He  felt  no  glow  of  his  blood  at  the  prospect.  It 
would  have  been  a  gratuitous  distraint  on  his 
self-respect.  So  he  found  refuge  in  a  pious 
deception. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "that  might  cost  you  your 
night's  rest."  Then,  without  giving  her  time  to 
reply,  he  said  to  Christopher,  "Are  you  ready, 
Grahame?  We  are  nearly  the  last." 

Chris  was  on  excellent  terms  with  himself  by 
this  time. 


THE  YOKE 

"Ready!"  he  cried  gleefully.  "I'm  ready  for 
anything — any  mortal  thing.  So's  Lucy.  Aren't 
you,  Lucy?  Lord,  you  do  look  ripping  when  you 
smile  like  that  1"  He  snatched  her  hand. 

"Rather!"  said  Lucy,  finishing  her  wine.  "Say 
the  word.  If  you're  very  good  I'll  let  you  kiss  me 
presently."  Then  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"If  he's  like  his  friend,"  said  Maurice's  com- 
panion, "he'll  tell  you  he  doesn't  want  to." 

"What!  Oh,  naughty!"  said  Lucy,  bending  to 
Maurice  with  her  most  alluring  air.  "You 
wouldn't  say  that  to  me,  dear?" 

"I've  forgotten  the  trick  of  it,"  he  answered 
mendaciously. 

"Don't  you  believe  him,"  said  Chris. 

"Not  much!"  she  cried  indignantly.  "Forgot- 
ten the  trick!  Have  you  forgotten  it?" 

"Not  half!"  said  Christopher,  gaily.  "Neither 
that  nor  another.  Oh,  the  bill !"  as  a  waiter  re- 
spectfully presented  that  document.  He  dug  his 
hand  into  his  pocket. 

"I'll  settle  up,"  said  Maurice. 

Christopher  remonstrated,  but  eventually,  after 
a  brief  controversy,  gave  way. 

He  dropped  behind  the  girls  as  they  were 
leaving  the  restaurant  and  walked  beside  Maurice. 

176 


THE  YOKE 

"You're  coming  to  see  them  home,  old  chap," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  affectionate  confidence  which 
such  seasons  beget. 

"Is  that  the  inspiration?"  asked  Maurice, 
smiling. 

"It  is  the  inspiration,"  replied  Christopher, 
beaming. 

"Not  a  very  original  one!"  laughed  Maurice. 
"Well,  I  contracted  out  of  it,  didn't  I?" 

"You're  not  coming?" 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"Rather  rough  on  the  girl,  though." 

"Oh,  I've  made  it  all  right  with  her,"  said 
Maurice. 

"What  a  weird  sort  of  fellow  you  are,  Heelas," 
said  Grahame,  momentarily  sobering.  "I  wish  I 
was  built  in  the  same  way;  it  would  save  one  such 
an  infernal  lot  of  worry." 

He  hailed  a  hansom  when  they  reached  the 
street,  and,  after  a  little  spirited  discussion  as  to 
the  method  of  seating,  the  three  squeezed  into  it. 

"You're  a  good  sort,"  said  Maurice's  late  com- 
panion, turning  towards  him,  as  she  stepped  up. 
"I  wish  you  were  coming,"  and  added,  in  a  whisper, 
"—for  yourself." 


177 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"DEAR  HEELAS, — If  you  have  an  hour  to  spare 
any  afternoon  will  you  come  in  and  see  me?  I 
want  to  talk  to  you. — Yrs. 

"C.  GRAHAME." 

It  was  a  characteristic  note.  Christopher's 
letters  seldom  extended  beyond  the  first  side  of  a 
sheet  of  paper,  and  when  they  did  they  expressed 
what  he  had  to  say  without  embellishment  or  the 
smallest  regard  for  the  delicacies  of  composition. 
The  same  little  word  could  recur  four  or  five  times 
in  as  many  lines  without  giving  him  pause;  he 
didn't  know  what  a  split  infinitive  was;  and  his 
method  of  choosing  prepositions  was  apparently 
to  pick  them  from  a  hat.  Since,  in  addition,  his 
handwriting  had  never  acquired  any  definite 
formation,  the  result  was  frequently  such  as  to 
produce  in  the  mind  of  a  stranger  considerable 
misconception  of  the  qualities  and  attainments  of 
his  correspondent.  In  short,  to  vary  a  schoolboy 
phrase,  Christopher  was  "not  such  a  fool  as  he 
wrote." 

.78 


THE  YOKE 

Maurice  read  the  few  cramped,  round  words 
with  some  perplexity.  -February  was  well  ad- 
vanced by  this  time,  and  he  had  supposed  that 
Grahame  had  gone  to  Sandhurst ;  whereas  the  note 
was  dated  from  his  old  quarters  in  town.  It  was 
unlike  him,  too,  to  write ;  usually  he  came  round  to 
the  Temple  to  make  his  communications  by  word 
of  mouth. 

He  put  the  note  back  in  its  envelope  and  laid  it 
beside  his  breakfast  plate. 

"Something  must  be  wrong,"  he  said  aloud. 

"Wrong  with  whom?"  said  Angelica. 

"With  Grahame,"  said  Maurice,  removing  the 
covers;  "he  wants  me  to  go  and  see  him.  Hooray, 
it's  kidneys." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  he?  Does  that  imply 
mental  derangement?" 

"I  thought  he  was  at  Sandhurst,"  replied 
Maurice.  "Besides,  he's  not  given  to  writing 
notes." 

"Perhaps  he  wants  you  to  help  him  to  celebrate 
his  success  again,"  said  Angelica,  smiling.  She  put 
out  a  hand  and  took  the  plate  which  Maurice 
handed  to  her.  She  was  in  excellent  spirits,  a  soft 
glow  of  health  about  her,  in  a  bright  morning- 
gown. 

179 


THE  YOKE 

"Oh,  that  solitary  night!"  said  Maurice,  with 
prodigious  affectation  of  long-suffering.  "You  are 
really  quite  unkind  about  it,  Angelica." 

"I  should  like  you  to  have  more  of  them,"  said 
Angelica,  quietly.  "I  think  they  do  you  good. 
You  have  been  working  too  hard  lately." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Maurice.  "I'm  not  the  least 
likely  to  do  that.  And  I  don't  care  a  straw  for 
music-halls.  I  can  never  quite  understand  what 
it  is  about  them  that  appeals  to  cultivated  men." 

"Oh,  but  I  can,"  said  Angelica,  " — to  a  man 
who  is  working  his  brain  during  the  day,  especially. 
It's  the  relaxation,  the  freedom,  the  relief  of  taking 
his  mind  for  a  time  from  things  that  matter  and 
letting  it  drift  among  empty  trifles.  He  doesn't 
feel  inclined  to  follow  the  intricacies  of  a  play; 
besides,  the  order  and  restraint  are  irksome  to  him. 
You  are  doing  without  all  this  to  spend  your  even- 
ings with  me  and  sometimes  to  take  me  to  a  theatre 
and  to  dine  at  people's  houses  and  have  them  here 
and  play  domestic  bridge,  like  a  staid  old  gen- 
tleman." There  was  rather  a  wistful  expression 
in  her  soft  grey  eyes.  "Are  you  sure  you  are 
happy,  Maurice?" 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it.  "Awfully 
happy,"  he  said,  " — awfully — awfully." 

180 


THE  YOKE 

Angelica  breathed  a  sigh  of  content.  "Some- 
times it  seems  almost  too  good  to  be  true,"  she 
said. 

"What  does?"  said  Maurice. 

"That  we  can  do  this,  live  in  this  way,  which 
most  people  would  consider  so  frightfully  immoral, 
and  yet  be  so  utterly  happy  and  each  retain  our  self- 
respect  and  respect  of  one  another." 

"What  makes  me  so  thankful,"  said  Maurice, 
"is  that  we  have  had  the  luck  to  find  it  out.  I'm 
tremendously  glad  I  was  obstinate  that  night."  He 
paused,  and  then  asked  a  little  diffidently  in  a  lower 
voice,  "Are  you,  Angelica?" 

She  didn't  answer,  but  after  a  momentary  inter- 
val, rose  suddenly  and  wrapped  him  convulsively 
in  her  arms. 

It  happened  to  be  Saturday.  So  Maurice  had 
a  free  afternoon  to  devote  to  Chris — a  circum- 
stance of  which  the  latter  had  possibly  taken  ac- 
count when  he  penned  his  note.  Maurice  went  up 
to  Shaftesbury  Avenue  immediately  after  lunch. 
As  he  made  his  way  along  the  pavements  filled 
with  eager  City  men  hurrying  homeward,  he  was 
conscious  of  increasing  vague  uneasiness  on  his 
friend's  account,  and  this  feeling  deepened  as  he 
mounted  the  broad  stone  steps  leading  to  Gra- 

181 


THE  YOKE 

hame's  rooms.  In  response  to  his  light  knock  the 
latter  called  to  him  to  come  in,  and  he  opened  the 
door  of  the  sitting-room.  Christopher  was  sitting 
in  the  corner  of  the  settee,  his  head  resting  upon  a 
cushion,  one  leg  extended  along  the  seat,  smoking 
a  cigarette.  There  was  a  small  stand  beside  him 
with  an  ash-tray  upon  it,  but  no  book  nor  paper 
nor  magazine,  nor  sign  of  any  occupation  beyond 
the  rather  uninteresting  one  of  watching  his  smoke 
wreaths.  Apparently  he  had  been  brooding. 
That  was  as  much  unlike  him  as  the  writing  of  the 
note. 

"Did  I  disturb  you?"  said  Maurice.  "You 
weren't  asleep,  were  you?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  no!"  said  Christopher.  "It's  good 
of  you  to  come  round,  Heelas.  Sit  down.  The 
cigarettes  are  on  that  little  table  " 

Maurice  sat  down  and  lighted  a  cigarette.'  He 
was  confirmed  in  his  misgiving  by  Grahame's 
appearance.  There  was  a  change  in  him.  The 
old  happy,  cheery  expression  had  gone — gone,  it 
appeared  to  Maurice,  irrevocably — and  had  been 
replaced  by  that  of  a  man  much  older.  His  skin 
was  grey  beneath  the  familiar  warm  colouring, 
his  round  cheeks  were  thinner,  his  eyes  were  grave 
and  steady.  In  a  line,  his  face  had  the  unmistak- 

182 


THE  YOKE 

able  stamp  of  one  who  had  suffered — suffered 
mentally. 

Maurice  went  straight  to  the  point.  "Some- 
thing is  wrong?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Chris. 

Maurice  waited. 

"Can't  you  guess?"  Chris  asked. 

"No." 

"I've  been  caught — badly." 

"Caught?"  said  Maurice,  scarcely  apprehending. 

"The  other  night,  you  remember — " 

Maurice  sat  up  in  his  chair,  gripping  the 
elbows.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked 
hoarsely. 

"It's  it— it— it." 

"The  worst?"  The  words  came  hardly  above 
his  breath. 

"The  very  worst,"  said  Chris. 

There  was  a  dull  pause.  Something  like  ice  had 
run  through  Maurice.  This  was  a  thing  he  had 
heard  of,  thought  of,  knew  the  terrors  of,  but  had 
never  come  to  close  quarters  with. 

He  pulled  himself  together.  "Perhaps  you 
are  wrong,"  he  said.  "Have  you  seen  a  doc- 
tor?" 

183 


THE  YOKE 

"I've  seen  two.     I  thought  the  first  might  be 
an  ass." 
-  "The  second  confirmed  him?" 

"Oh,  yes.  There's  no  doubt,  old  chap.  Pitch 
me  another  cigarette." 

Maurice  did  so,  and  there  was  a  further  interval 
of  silence. 

"Of  course  I'm  done  for  the  army,"  said  Chris, 
presently. 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?"  asked  Maurice, 
following  his  own  line  of  thought. 

"He  says  he  can  cure  me  in  time — sort  of  cure 
me — but  it'll  take  a  long  time.  I  ought  never  to 
marry." 

"Did  he  say  so?" 

"He  hinted  it.  I  shall  have  to  keep  away  from 
women's  society — to  be  a  sort  of  outcast  from  my 
fellows — get  a  reputation  for  a  misogynist." 

"You  can  live  unmarried  without  all  that.  That 
needn't  follow." 

"Not  for  you,  perhaps.  You're  a  lucky 
dog,  Heelas.  You  seem  to  have  been  born  -with- 
out the  usual  human  weaknesses.  I  wish  to 
goodness  they'd  rigged  me  out  in  the  same 
way." 

Maurice   felt  a  hypocrite.     But  his  lips  were 
184 


THE  YOKE 

sealed.  It  was  the  worst  thing  he  had  ever  had 
to  suffer  for  Angelica. 

"In  the  meantime,"  continued  Chris,  "I've  got 
to  go  on  living — if  the  sort  of  existence  I  shall 
have  to  lead  for  the  next  year  or  two  can  be  called 
living."  He  glanced  round  the  comfortably  fur- 
nished room.  "The  Mater  fixed  me  up  here — 
she  has  done  everything,  in  fact — her  level  utmost 
— she  has  been  splendid.  She  was  keen  on  the 
army.  And  now  I've  lost  it." 

He  paused. 

"Flatly,"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  "I  can't  tell  the 
Mater.  I'll  kill  myself  rather." 

Maurice  got  up  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fire.  He  dug  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  looked 
at  his  friend. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  he  said,  "it  won't  do  any 
good.  Let  us  look  the  thing  steadily  in  the  face 
and  see  what's  best  to  be  done." 

"I'm  not  talking  wildly,"  said  Christopher, 
examining  the  lighted  end  of  his  cigarette.  "The 
Mater's  not  one  of  the  understanding  sort.  You 
know  that.  She  would  rather  have  me  dead  than 
like  this,  I  think.  I  believe  it  truly." 

"7  don't,"  said  Maurice,  firmly;  "I  don't  for 
a  single  moment."  He  spoke  quite  honestly,  and 

185 


THE  YOKE 

not  merely  to  inspire  Christopher.  He  was  fully 
conscious  of  Mrs  Grahame's  prejudices,  but  he 
could  not  doubt  that  her  deep  attachment  to  her 
son  would  prove  stronger  even  than  they. 

"This  is  the  worst  of  all,"  proceeded  Chris- 
topher, still  blowing  small  specks  of  ash  from  his 
cigarette.  "Anything  else  she  might  have  got  over, 
in  time — but  not  this.  This  puts  me  outside  the 
pale." 

"It's  always  the  worst  of  all,"  exclaimed 
Maurice,  with  sudden  vigour,  "among  people  who 
set  up  for  judges  of  conduct — always — always. 
I've  never  been  able  to  understand  why.  Other 
things  seem  worse,  but  it's  always  the  worst  of 
all." 

"It  has  to  be,  I  suppose,"  said  Grahame,  dully. 
"If  it  became  the  fashion  to  wink  at  it,  the  social 
system  would  have  to  be  fixed  up  on  a  different 
basis." 

"That  means  that  the  objection,  at  the  bottom, 
is  practical  and  not  moral." 

"Of  course  it  is." 

"But  they  don't  know  that — these  people  with 
views.  Mrs  Grahame  doesn't  know  it?" 

"Oh,  Lord,  no!"  said  Christopher. 

Maurice  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
186 


THE  YOKE 

Men  were  still  hurrying  along  in  the  street  below 
on  their  way  home,  eager  to  catch  the  3.4  at  Vic- 
toria, instead  of  being  obliged  to  wait  for  the  3.15. 
He  had  seen  this  same  stream  often  before  with- 
out being  conscious  of  any  special  characteristic 
of  it.  To-day  he  was  struck — as  humanity  in  gen- 
eral always  strikes  us  in  the  face  of  a  private  calam- 
ity— by  its  callousness,  its  shallowness.  What 
mattered  it  to  them,  so  long  as  they  got  quickly 
home  to  their  poultry  pens  or  their  slips  of  garden 
in  the  suburbs,  that  a  boy  full  of  promise,  full  of 
health,  full  of  lovable  qualities,  had  been  struck 
down,  at  the  very  outset  of  his  career,  by  a  terrible 
and  avertible  malady? 

He  went  back  to  his  seat  and  took  another  cigar- 
ette. "It's  no  good  saying  I'm  sorry,"  he  said, 
"the  word  is  preposterously  feeble.  One  feels  ut- 
terly mad,  somehow,  that  such  a  thing  should  hang 
on  a  chance." 

"Of  course  everyone  knows  the  chance  is  there," 
said  Christopher,  dully.  "Twenty  fellows  come 
off  fairly  free.  I  happen  to  be  the  twenty-first. 
They  had  a  system  in  the  Roman  armies,  hadn't 
they,  of  making  every  tenth  man  pay  the  penalty 
for  the  fault  of  the  whole?  I  always  thought  it 
was  moderately  rough  on  number  ten." 

187 


THE  YOKE 

He  dropped  his  head  on  the  cushion  and  blew 
a  cloud  of  smoke  into  the  air. 

"I  suppose  I  have  been  a  pretty  bad  lot,"  he  said 
meditatively,  as  he  watched  it  disperse. 

"Don't  talk  rot,"  cried  Maurice,  fiercely,  sitting 
forward  in  his  chair,  "don't  talk  utter  rot,  Gra- 
hame.  No  one  I  know,  or  ever  met,  has  less  of 
the  bad  lot  at  the  bottom  of  him.  You've  gone  as 
reasonably  straight  as  a  man  can." 

"Some  people  would  call  it  uncommonly 
crooked,"  said  Grahame,  with  a  wry  smile. 

"And  look  here,  Grahame,"  continued  Maurice, 
speaking  earnestly,  "don't  get  an  exaggerated  idea 
of  what  you  have  to  go  through.  Every  moment 
you  can  save,  in  making  up  your  mind  to  it  as 
an  inevitable  nuisance  and  tackling  it  with  that 
idea,  is  a  pure  gain.  There  are  things  that  are 
worse." 

"What  are  they?" 

"Oh,  lots.     Some  much  worse.     Cancer,  say." 

"Men  don't  nudge  one  another  and  point  across 
the  street  and  say  'That  man  has  cancer.'  I  tell 
you,  I'm  a  leper;  I'm  made  unfit  to  mix  with  decent 
people ;  the  very  thought  of  oneself  becomes  loath- 


some." 


"That's  all    nonsense,"  said    Maurice.     "The 
188 


THE  YOKE 

thing  itself  is  not  so  bad  if  it's  treated  properly. 
It's  really  only  troublesome  because  of  the  senti- 
mental and  moral  effect,  which  you  exaggerate 
ludicrously  at  present,  and  the  practical  incon- 
venience, which  we  must  think  about  and  find  some 
way  to  get  over.  These  sort  of  worries  often  look 
very  big  at  first,  but  they  come  down  tremendously 
when  you  get  your  mind  fairly  broken  in  to  the 
new  situation." 

He  spoke,  it  must  be  owned,  appreciably  more 
optimistically  than  he  felt. 

"It's  no  good,  Heelas,"  said  Grahame,  calmly. 
"It's  good  of  you  to  make  the  best  of  it.  But 
I'm  done,  so  far  as  this  world  goes.  If  there's 
another,  they  may  give  me  a  second  chance.  I've 
paid  pretty  early." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  take  that  view  of  it, 
Grahame,"  said  Maurice,  with  keen  distress. 

"How  can  I  possibly  take  any  other?"  Some 
of  the  pent-up  agony  in  Chris  found  vent.  "It's 
not  a  view — 'tis  a  fact.  I  wish  to  heaven  it 
wasn't!"  Suddenly  he  got  up  and  strode  to  the 
window,  threw  up  the  sash  and  put  his  head  out. 

Maurice  followed  him.     There  was  a  pause. 

"Grahame." 

Chris  slowly  drew  in  his  head. 


THE  YOKE 

"You  are  not  seriously  thinking  of  that?" 

"Of  what?" 

"Of  putting  an  end  to  it?" 

Chris  stood  by  the  open  window,  the  cold  air 
sweeping  in  upon  him,  his  young,  round  face  lined 
and  drawn  with  pain. 

"Why  not?"  he  said.  "What  single  induce- 
ment has  life  to  offer?  What  prospect  of  anything 
but  misery  and  degradation  ?  Think  of  the  future 
— an  outcast — a  pariah — condemned  and  disowned 
by  my  own  mother!  Think  of  it,  man.  Why 
should  I  cling  to  this  beastly  body  that  has  become 
hateful  to  me,  that  I  despise  and  detest?" 

Maurice  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "You  are 
not  yourself,"  he  said.  "Come  away  from  that 
window." 

"Leave  me  alone,  Heelas."  Chris  shook  him 
off,  and  again  stretched  his  head  through  the  open- 
ing and  looked  down  upon  the  street  below. 

"Mysterious  suicides,"  he  muttered.  "You 
often  read  of  mysterious  suicides,  Heelas.  They 
don't  give  the  reason  in  the  paper.  Thank  Heaven 
for  that!  ...  I  should  make  a  queer  mess  of 
that  fellow's  topper." 

Maurice  put  both  his  arms  round  him  and 
attempted  to  draw  him  gently  back.  Chris  tried 

190 


THE  YOKE 

to  shake  him  off  again,  but  Maurice  resolutely  re- 
tained his  hold. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  repeated  Chris,  petulantly. 

"Not  until  you  come  away  from  the  window," 
said  Maurice,  firmly. 

Grahame  screwed  himself  round,  grasped  Mau- 
rice by  the  collar-bone  and  forced  him  back. 

"Take  your  hands  off,"  he  demanded,  angrily. 

"Not  until  you  come  away,"  persisted  Maurice, 
beginning  to  pant. 

He  made  a  sudden  effort  and  dragged  Chris  a 
foot  or  two  from  the  open  window.  The  action 
was  fatal.  Grahame  had  reached  a  pitch  of  ner- 
vous excitement  which  could  brook  no  such  arbi- 
trary treatment.  He  wrapped  his  arms  about 
Maurice  and  swung  him  violently  back  towards  the 
window. 

"If  you  will,  you  shall,"  he  shouted. 

He  was  suddenly  outside  himself,  dominated  by 
forces  beyond  his  control.  Every  other  thought 
was  overwhelmed  in  the  single  desire  to  hurl 
himself  and  his  friend  to  the  hard  pavement,  forty 
feet  below.  Maurice  felt  it,  knew  it,  in  the  tense 
grip  that  bound  him.  From  vague  anxiety  for  his 
friend  he  was  plunged  in  a  vivid  moment  into  the 
stern  consciousness  that  only  his  physical  strength 

191 


THE  YOKE 

could  avail  to  save  either  of  them.  They  reeled, 
hovered  over  the  window,  then  with  a  swirl  and  a 
thump  they  were  in  the  centre  of  the  room;  the 
little  table  with  the  cigarettes  upon  it  cracked  down 
and  a  chair  beside  it,  and  they  were  at  the  win- 
dow again.  Not  a  word  was  uttered.  In  silence, 
their  breath  came  deeply,  strenuously;  in  silence, 
their  boots  scraped  on  the  polished  boards  at  the 
edge  of  the  carpet.  Chris  was  the  heavier  of  the 
two,  but  the  lack  of  sufficient  food  and  sleep 
during  the  last  week  or  two  had  weakened 
him.  With  a  great  effort  he  raised  Maurice, 
lifted  him  slowly  from  his  heels  to  his  toes.  Then 
his  strength  failed.  Maurice  held  him.  They 
swayed  inward,  tottered  a  step,  two  steps;  Mau- 
rice's head  shaved  the  marble  mantel.  Then  they 
fell  together,  with  a  crash,  among  the  fire-irons  on 
the  hearth. 

Chris  was  sobered  by  the  fall.  He  picked  him- 
self up  stiffly  and  gave  a  hand  to  Maurice,  who 
was  underneath.  They  were  both  slightly  dazed. 
Maurice  had  been  cut  below  the  cheek-bone  by  the 
brass  fender.  He  dabbed  the  place  slowly  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief. 

"I'm  sorry,  Heelas,"  said  Chris. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Maurice,  simply. 
192 


THE  YOKE 

"Not  for  that  scratch;  I  mean  for  trying  to 
murder  you." 

"I  know,"  said  Maurice. 

They  quietly  recovered  the  scattered  cigarettes; 
then  set  the  little  table  on  its  legs  and  sat  down 
on  either  side  of  it. 

"I  can't  think  what  happened  to  me,"  said  Chris. 
"I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing.  I  suppose  it 
must  make  rather  a  mess  of  you  when  one  beastly 
thought  goes  on  drumming  on  your  brain  for  days 
and  weeks  without  stopping. 

"Of  course  it  does,"  said  Maurice,  "there's  no 
doubt  about  that.  I  think  I'll  have  some  whisky 
or  brandy,"  he  added,  getting  up,  "if  you've  got 
any." 

"Sorry,  old  chap;  it's  in  the  cupboard.  What 
a  wild  beast  to  come  and  see !  I'm  glad  we  didn't 
go — I  mean,  I'm  glad  you  didn't  go." 

"Don't  keep  harping  on  that  note,  Grahame," 
said  Maurice.  "Sha'n't  you  have  any?" — he  was 
pouring  out  the  spirit.  Chris  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "You  know  we  are  not  entitled  to  take  our 
lives.  Whatever  happens  they  are  not  ours  to 
take.  We  hold  them  on  trust." 

"I  can't  see  it,"  exclaimed  Grahame,  emphati- 
cally, "I  never  could.  I  didn't  ask  for  this  body; 


I  didn't  want  it;  it  was  forced  upon  me.  Why 
should  I  respect  it?" 

"We  often  have  presents  given  us  that  we  cer- 
tainly didn't  ask  for,  and  that  we  don't  want  and 
don't  like.  But  we  don't  throw  them  on  the  fire. 
We  should  feel  mean  brutes  if  we  did." 

"Yes,  but  if  the  present  had  a  malignant  microbe 
inside  it,  we  should  pretty  soon  have  it  in  the  big- 
gest and  deepest  fire  we  could  find." 

"It's  not  one  of  those  things  you  can  demonstrate 
by  reason,"  said  Maurice.  "It's  an  instinct;  it's 
something  we  feel.  A  man  who  has  been  born 
with  sufficient  income  to  live  upon  can  logically  say 
to  himself,  'I've  had  life  forced  upon  me;  I've  had 
money  forced  upon  me;  there's  no  reason  why  I 
should  do  anything.'  But  if  he  simply  lives — lives 
perfectly  morally,  but  uselessly — he  can't  help 
losing  his  self-respect.  He  has  got  the  feeling  that 
he  is  betraying  a  trust." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Chris;  "life  is  a  pleasant 
thing  to  that  fellow.  What  he  feels  is,  that  he 
has  had  an  uncommonly  handsome  thing  done  to 
him,  and  that  he's  doing  absolutely  nothing  in 
return." 

"I  don't  think  it's  merely  that,"  said  Maurice. 
"We  might  make  the  income  only  just  enough  to 

194 


THE  YOKE 

keep  him  clear  of  starvation,  and  the  feeling  would 
still  be  the  same." 

uAt  any  rate  he  starts  clear,"  said  Chris,  "and 
not  with  a  big  detriment.  If  I  were  to  consent 
to  go  on  living,  in  present  circumstances,  to  go  on 
doing  the  work  which  I'm  presumably  desired  to 
do,  I  should  consider  it  an  act  of  uncommon  mag- 
nanimity. In  the  case  of  a  man  who  has  a  family 
depending  upon  him,  I'll  admit  there  may  be  some- 
thing in  your  ideas;  though,  even  so,  he  has  been 
forced  to  acquire  the  family  by  the  necessities  stuck 
within  him;  it  hasn't  been  of  his  own  free  will. 
He  never  has  a  choice;  he's  driven — driven — 
driven — from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  by  the  force 
that  is  working  everywhere  to  some  unknown  end 
of  its  own.  Most  people  think  it's  a  serious  end. 
To  my  mind  it  appears  to  be  the  finest  practical 
joke  that  ever  was  heard  of — for  those  who  play 
it.  Man  is  made  to  think  he's  enjoying  himself, 
when  all  the  time  he's  quietly  preparing  the  climax. 
The  great  idea  is  to  lead  us  on  till  we  cover  the 
earth,  cover  every  inch  of  it,  and  jostle  one  another 
for  a  foothold.  Think  what  a  comical  sight  that'll 
be!  Side-splitting.  It's  only  by  setting  up  arbi- 
trary marriage-laws,  and  cultivating  artificial  no- 
tions of  morality,  and  providing  vicious  outlets — 

195 


THE  YOKE 

calling  for  the  sacrifice  of  platoons  of  feminine 
victims  and  occasional  masculine  ones,  like  me — 
that  we  are  able  to  keep  the  jest  within  bounds 
of  any  kind,  and  prevent  ourselves  becoming  ut- 
terly, abjectly  ridiculous.  There's  another  way 
of  spoiling  the  joke,  which  we  are  only  just  begin- 
ning to  learn — that's  to  take  the  bait  cautiously 
and  leave  the  hook.  When  it's  fully  developed 
the  laugh  will  be  on  our  side.  I'm  sorry  I  sha'n't 
be  here  to  join  in." 

"I  can't  make  you  out,  Grahame,"  said  Maurice, 
a  little  anxiously.  "I  never  heard  you  talk  like 
this  before.  I  didn't  know  you  could." 

"Neither  did  I,"  said  Grahame,  breaking  up  a 
coal  with  his  foot,  "until  a  week  or  so  ago." 

Maurice  set  to  work  to  grapple  with  this  mood 
with  all  his  energy,  and  eventually  succeeded  in 
bringing  Chris  round  to  a  more  normal  frame  of 
mind.  By  that  time  the  afternoon  was  well  ad- 
vanced, and  he  got  up  to  leave,  feeling  more  at 
ease,  for  the  time,  on  his  friend's  account. 

"It  has  done  me  a  heap  of  good  having  you  to 
talk  to,  Heelas,"  said  Chris,  as  they  separated; 
"but  it  hasn't  been  much  of  a  game  for  you,  I'm 
afraid,  and  it  nearly  cost  you  your  life.  Jove, 
I  mustn't  think  of  that!"  he  added  quickly,  with 

196 


sudden  fear  of  himself  in  his  face.  "The  devil  of 
a  thing  like  this  is  that  you  have  to  tackle  it  alone, 
hide  it,  except  with  a  man  you  know  absolutely 
well." 

Maurice  was  struck  by  a  difficulty.  "Angelica 
knows  you  sent  for  me,"  he  said.  "What  shall  1 
say?" 

"I  don't  mind  her  knowing,"  said  Chris,  after 
a  moment's  reflection.  "In  fact,  I  think  I  should 
like  her  to.  She  is  one  of  the  few  who  understand. 
If  the  world  were  made  of  Angelicas  it  would  be 
liveable  in,  even  for  me." 

Maurice  hung  at  the  door,  with  his  hat  on,  and 
surveyed  his  friend  earnestly. 

"Don't,"  he  pleaded,  "don't,  Grahame.  If  you 
won't  think  of  yourself,  think  of  your  people,  think 
of  your  friends,  think  of  me." 

"All  right,"  said  Chris,  and  his  face  lighted  all 
at  once  with  a  delightful  beam  of  his  old  sunny 
smile,  "I'll  try." 


197 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  was  half-past  five  when  Maurice  reached 
home.  He  looked  in  all  the  sitting-rooms  for 
Angelica,  but  she  was  in  none  of  them,  so  he  went 
upstairs.  He  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  bedroom. 
Receiving  no  answer  he  opened  it  and  went  inside. 
It  was  empty. 

Maurice  always  entered  this  room  with  a  kind 
of  reverence.  Everything  in  it  was  sacred  in  his 
eyes:  the  plain  pink  wallpaper,  hung  with  a  few 
water-colours — amateur  efforts,  the  gifts  of  friends, 
but  creditable  as  such;  the  soft  muslin  curtains, 
sprinkled  with  a  pattern  of  dog-rose;  the  suite  of 
Sheraton  furniture;  the  dressing-table,  standing 
across  a  corner  by  the  window,  with  its  wide  oval 
mirror  and  bright  array  of  silver  brushes  and 
trinkets;  the  shining  brass  bedstead,  swathed  with 
warm  coverings.  Moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  he 
lifted  a  corner  of  the  swan's-down  quilt  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips. 

He  turned  guiltily  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep. 
Angelica,  in  furs,  was  standing  behind  him,  glow- 
ing from  a  walk. 

198 


THE  YOKE 

"Silly  boy!"  she  said.  But  the  indulgent  smile 
which  accompanied  the  words,  and  the  suspicion 
of  moisture  in  each  of  her  eyes,  sufficiently  contra- 
dicted them. 

"Does  it  really  mean  so  much  to  you,  Maurice?" 
she  asked  softly. 

"More  now  than  ever,"  said  Maurice. 

Angelica  removed  her  jacket,  and  stood  in  front 
of  the  mirror,  drawing  pins  from  her  hat.  Maurice 
half  sat  and  half  leaned  upon  the  edge  of  the 
bed. 

"More  now  than  ever?"  repeated  Angelica. 
"Why,  Maurice?" 

"I've  been  to  see  Grahame  this  afternoon,"  said 
Maurice. 

Angelica  placed  her  hat  on  the  dressing-table 
and  lightly  puffed  out  her  hair  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'd  forgotten,"  she  said.  "And  what 
did  he  have  to  say?  Anything  that  I  can  be 
allowed  to  hear?" 

"Something  very  serious,"  said  Maurice. 

Angelica  turned  round  sharply.  She  looked  at 
him  with  quick  anxiety. 

"My  dear  boy,  what  have  you  done  to  your 
cheek?" 

199 


THE  YOKE 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  Maurice.  "I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  Grahame." 

"Yes?"  said  Angelica. 

"He's  in  awful  trouble,"  said  Maurice. 

"What  sort  of  trouble?" 

"It's  his  health." 

Angelica  turned  pale.  She  stood  quite  still  and 
waited,  without  speaking. 

"You  must  guess,"  said  Maurice.  "I  can't  tell 
you." 

She  looked  deep  into  his  face.  "Was  it  that 
evening?"  she  said,  a  quick  terror  in  her  voice, 
" — that  evening  that  you  spent  together,  after  he 
had  passed  for  Sandhurst?  Was  it  that?" 

Maurice  made  no  reply. 

There  was  a  tense  pause.  Angelica  stood 
gripping  the  brass  rail  of  the  bed-foot,  her  rings 
biting  red  marks  into  the  white  flesh.  Acute 
distress  stood  in  her  eyes  and  strained  her  whole 
frame. 

"Are  you  sure,  Maurice?"  she  said,  slowly. 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice,  simply;  "there's  no  doubt 
about  it.  His  career  is  ruined." 

Angelica  turned  aside  without  a  word,  and 
dropped  into  a  low  chair,  trembling.  A  long  silence 
followed.  Maurice  had  not  stirred  from  his  posi- 

200 


THE  YOKE 

tion  on  the  bed-edge.  His  hands  were  in  his 
pockets;  he  had  rarely  looked  at  Angelica  during 
their  short  colloquy. 

"Oh,  Chris!"  she  murmured  softly  at  length. 
"Poor,  poor  Chris!  With  all  his  brightness  and 
sunniness  and  freshness,  and  his  youth  and  his 
happy  prospects  and  his  generous  heart — that  he 
should  have  been  caught  in  the  vortex!"  Tears 
stood  in  her  eyes. 

Maurice  suddenly  left  his  place  and  came  round 
to  where  she  was  sitting. 

"Look  here,  Angelica,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  You 
can  always  see  so  clearly.  So  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, I  made  the  best  of  it  to  Grahame,  but  I 
simply  can't  think — I  simply  can't  imagine." 

"Just  how  bad  is  it?"  asked  Angelica. 

"He  won't  be  admitted  to  the  army,  Mrs  Gra- 
hame can't  be  told,  and  he  has  nc  means,"  re- 
sponded Maurice. 

"No,"  agreed  Angelica,  half  mechanically,  her 
brows  bent  in  thought,  "Mrs  Grahame  can't  be 
told." 

"Then  what  on  earth  is  he  to  do?" 

"Well,  if  he  can't  go  into  the  army,"  said 
Angelica,  calmly,  "he  must  do  something  else." 

"But  what?"  said  Maurice.  "He  is  too  old  to 
201 


THE  YOKE 

make  an  absolute  beginning  in  almost  anything. 
The  time  has  passed  while  he  has  been  reading  for 
the  army.  Then  the  reason  which  applies  against 
the  army  will  apply  against  other  things.  And,  of 
course,  for  the  next  year  or  two  he  won't  be  good 
for  much — certainly  not  for  anything  like  con- 
tinuous work.  But  the  big,  the  supreme  problem 
is  Mrs  Grahame." 

"Yes,  I  understand  all  that,"  said  Angelica,  still 
thinking.  "It  is  a  difficult  situation.  But  there 
must  be  some  way  of  escape." 

"He  sees  only  one,"  said  Maurice. 

She  looked  up  sharply.     "Do  you — " 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice. 

"Oh,  how  terrible !  how  terrible !" 

Her  face  was  strained  with  the  keenest  pain. 

"Maurice,  we  must  prevent  that  at  all  costs. 
Did  he  seem  to  think  of  it  deliberately?" 

"It's  hard  to  say,"  said  Maurice.  "He  was 
changeable,  strange,  utterly  unlike  himself.  '  I  had 
rather  a  difficult  time  with  him.  But  I  left  him 
calmer.  I  think  he  is  safe  for  the  immediate 
present;  but  the  trouble  is  going  to  be  to  tide  over 
the  time  until  we  can  get  his  affairs  settled  on  a  new 
basis." 

"Poor  Chris!"  said  Angelica  again  very  softly, 
202 


THE  YOKE 

gazing  with  moist  eyes  out  of  the  window.  "Poor, 
poor  boy!" 

But  it  was  not  her  nature  to  rest  satisfied  with 
unavailing  compassion,  or  to  be  dismayed  by  ap- 
parently insuperable  obstacles.  Presently  she 
turned  to  Maurice  with  an  air  of  quiet  briskness. 

"Well,  now,"  she  said,  "let  us  take  these  difficul- 
ties in  order.  To  begin  with,  there  is  Mrs  Gra- 
hame.  She  must  be  told  the  truth ;  that  the  doctor 
won't  pass  him  for  the  army." 

"It  is  the  truth,  of  course,"  said  Maurice, 
meditatively,  "the  pure  and  simple  truth.  But 
will  she  be  satisfied  without  details?  You  know, 
she's  frightfully  keen  on  anything  to  do  with 
human  ailments  and  talks  reels  of  amateur  medi- 
cine." 

"She  will  have  to  be  satisfied  if  no  details  are 
forthcoming,"  said  Angelica.  "It  is  quite  as 
necessary  for  her  own  sake  as  for  his  that  she 
should  be  kept  in  the  dark.  Although  Chris  is 
no  worse  a  son  or  a  man  for  this  misfortune,  she 
wouldn't  be  able  to  realise  it,  and  it  would  be  a 
terrible  trouble  to  her  to  know  the  whole  truth. 
The  main  point  is  that  the  reason  he  has  to  give  up 
the  army  will  not  be  in  any  doubt." 

"No,"  said  Maurice,  slowly,  "no — of  course,  it 
203 


THE  YOKE 

wouldn't."  He  plumped  down  into  a  cane-seated 
chair  and  clasped  a  knee  between  his  hands. 
"Jove,  I  believe  that's  the  way  out,"  he  added, 
brightly;  "even  if  we  have  to  invent  a  varicose 
vein." 

"Then,  as  to  what  is  to  become  of  him  until  he 
recovers  his  health,"  proceeded  Angelica,  calmly; 
"Mrs  Grahame  will  probably  want  him  to  go  to 
Haslemere.  But  that  would  hardly  be  judicious, 
if  it  could  be  avoided.  If  it  is  not  practicable  for 
him  to  continue  in  his  present  rooms,  he  could  come 
and  live  with  us." 

"You're  a  brick,"  said  Maurice,  fervently. 
"But  I  don't  believe  he  would  come — I'm  afraid 
not." 

"At  any  rate,  make  him  understand  that  we 
want  him  to;  tell  him  that  you  would  like  it  and 
that  I  should  like  it;  don't  let  him  feel  that  there 
need  be  any  trouble  or  difficulty  about  the  next 
year  or  two." 

"And  what  is  he  to  do  afterwards?"  said 
Maurice.  "What  about  the  future?" 

"Oh,  that  seems  foolish,"  replied  Angelica. 
"There  must  be  many  things  still  open  to  him. 
How  old  is  he?" 

"Nearly  twenty,  I  think,"  said  Maurice. 
204 


THE  YOKE 

"You  say  it  as  gloomily  as  if  he  were  forty," 
said  Angelica,  with  a  laugh.  "Now,  let  us  think. 
Begin  with  the  law.  What  have  you  to  say  about 
that?" 

"The  Bar?"  said  Maurice. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  don't  know  why  it  should  be  so, 
but  the  solicitor's  profession  is  not  one  for  which 
one  has  much  respect." 

"I  think  the  feeling  is,"  said  Maurice,  "that  it's 
unnecessary;  you  oughtn't  to  have  to  employ  a 
solicitor.  There  is  no  natural  need  for  him." 

"Well,  is  he  too  old  for  the  Bar?"  asked 
Angelica. 

"No,"  replied  Maurice,  laughing  slightly  at  the 
necessity  to  make  the  admission,  "as  a  matter  of 
fact,  he's  not.  There's  no  age  limit.  Men  often 
get  called  quite  late  in  life." 

"There,  you  see !"  cried  Angelica,  triumphantly, 
"the  very  first  thing  I  suggest !" 

"I  rather  fancy  it  would  suit  him,  too,"  con- 
tinued Maurice,  reflectively.  "I've  thought  so 
several  times.  In  fact,  I  believe  he  has  said  as 
much.  Oh,  you  are  perfectly  splendid,  Angelica," 
he  cried,  springing  up  with  sudden  boyish  enthu- 
siasm, seizing  one  of  her  hands  in  each  of  his  own, 
and  smiling  upon  her  gratefully  and  happily. 

205 


THE  YOKE 

"You've  made  the  whole  thing  seem  absolutely 
simple  and  straightforward.  I  feel  a  lot  more 
cheerful  about  him  already.  I'll  go  and  see  him 
again  to-morrow  and  make  him  understand — make 
him." 

"Yes,  go  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,"  said 
Angelica,  "directly  after  breakfast.  He  mustn't 
be  allowed  to  brood.  Bring  him  back  with  you  to 
lunch.  He'll  try  to  get  out  of  it,  but  don't  let 
him.  Insist.  If  nothing  can  make  him  come,  stay 
with  him  instead;  but  remember  that  I  shall  be 
alone,  and  tell  him  so,  and  tell  him  that  I  told  you 
to  tell  him  so." 

"I  expect  he  won't  like  to  meet  you,"  said 
Maurice.  "He  says  he's  a  leper,  an  outcast." 

"Then  tell  him,"  said  Angelica,  with  one  of  her 
exquisite  smiles,  "to  come  and  make  my  acquaint- 
ance, because  he  evidently  doesn't  know  me." 

Maurice  lifted  the  white  hand  he  held  in  his 
right,  with  an  old-world  gesture  of  homage  and 
admiration,  and  touched  it  lightly  with  his  lips. 

"I  think  he'll  come,"  he  said. 


eo6 


CHAPTER  XVI 

As  Maurice  crossed  Piccadilly  Circus  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  a  deep-toned  clock  in  the  distance 
slowly  struck  ten.  It  would  not  have  been  audible 
on  another  day  of  the  week.  To-day  it  was  pene- 
trating and  reverberant;  the  only  sound  to  chal- 
lenge Maurice's  own  footsteps.  The  roar  of 
vehicles  for  a  brief  space  had  ceased  from  troubling, 
and  such  good  people  as  walked  in  that  direction 
on  their  way  to  places  of  worship  had  not  yet 
emerged  from  their  homes. 

The  influence  of  this  unaccustomed  silence  is 
usually  a  depressing  one ;  but  Maurice,  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion,  was  far  from  being  so  affected  by 
it.  He  passed  lightly  across  the  intersecting 
roadways,  only  thankful  to  be  spared,  for  once, 
the  always  impending  shocks  of  diagonal  traffic. 
The  partial  lifting  of  a  cloud  that  has  been  hang- 
ing over  us  produces  a  degree  of  buoyancy  we 
should  never  have  experienced  had  the  cloud  not 
fallen.  The  supreme  ecstasy  of  painlessness  is  hid- 
den from  us  until  a  violent  spasm  of  toothache 
lulls.  Similarly,  Angelica's  clear  perception  and 

207 


THE  YOKE 

vigorous  practical  purpose  had  reacted  on  Mau- 
rice's spirit  in  proportion  to  his  previous  depression. 

He  was  informed  by  the  steward  of  the  building 
in  which  Grahame's  rooms  were  situated  that  the 
latter  was  not  yet  up.  He  never  rang  for  his 
breakfast  earlier  than  ten  on  Sundays,  and  often 
not  before  eleven.  Maurice  ran  upstairs,  whistling 
softly.  There  was  a  lobby,  four  feet  square,  con- 
necting Chris's  small  suite.  The  bedroom  door 
faced  him  as  he  entered;  that  of  the  sitting-room 
was  on  the  left.  After  a  momentary  hesitation  he 
knocked  boisterously  on  the  former.  Receiving 
no  answer  he  burst  in  with  a  laugh. 

"Wake  up,  you  froust!"  he  cried.  "I've  come 
half  across  London — " 

He  stopped.  There  was  still  no  response.  The 
room  was  in  the  semi-darkness  produced  by  a 
drawn  blind  intercepting  the  daylight.  Maurice 
walked  over  and  pulled  it  up.  Then  he  looked  at 
the  bed. 

It  was  empty.  The  covers  were  undisturbed; 
Grahame's  pyjamas  lay  folded  beneath  the  pillow. 
The  room  in  other  respects  was  similarly  neatly 
disposed.  It  had  not  been  slept  in. 

Without  waiting  to  recognise  his  fears  Maurice 
opened  the  door  communicating  with  the  sitting- 

208 


THE  YOKE 

room.  He  was  met  by  a  glare  of  electric  light. 
Here  again  the  blind  had  not  been  raised.  Chris 
was  seated  in  an  easy-chair,  with  his  head  bent 
wearily  on  his  chest. 

"Grahame,"  said  Maurice;  then  quickly,  "Chris! 
Chris!" 

The  second  name  was  a  shout — a  cry. 

Maurice  had  never  seen  anyone  dead  before. 
But  he  knew  it — knew  it  absolutely — without  mov- 
ing a  step  nearer,  without  lifting  that  heavy  head 
or  feeling  for  the  still  pulse.  He  was  surprised 
at  his  own  calmness.  He  was  conscious  that  he 
had  turned  very  white;  but  he  did  not  faint,  he 
did  not  lose  his  head  nor  behave  wildly  in  the  first 
flush  of  horror,  of  grief.  He  took  in  every  detail. 
He  knew  exactly  what  had  occurred  and  how  it 
had  occurred.  He  saw  the  hypodermic  syringe  on 
the  floor  beside  the  chair;  he  noticed  that  on 
the  little  table,  which  still  held  the  cigarettes,  there 
now  stood  a  small  bottle  with  the  cork  out ;  he  even 
observed  that  there  was  a  note  propped  on  the 
mantelpiece,  addressed  to  himself. 

These  minutiae  were  photographed  on  his 
consciousness,  as  he  stood  at  the  door,  in  instant 
company  with  the  great,  staring,  stony  fact  of 
death  itself.  He  was  left  with  as  little  doubt 

209 


THE  YOKE 

about  the  means  of  the  tragedy  as  of  its  complete- 
ness. It  always  seemed  to  him  afterwards  that 
his  immediately  succeeding  actions  were  performed 
in  a  dream.  He  went  up  to  the  quiet  figure  in  the 
chair,  lifted  his  left  arm  and  rolled  back  the  sleeve. 
He  saw  nothing  unusual.  Then  he  turned  up  the 
left  trouser.  On  the  white  inner  skin  were  the 
small  blood  spots  he  expected  to  find.  He  quietly 
replaced  the  trouser  and  walked  out  on  to  the 
stairhead,  called  up  the  steward  and  sent  him  for 
a  doctor.  Then  he  came  back  into  the  room  and 
closed  the  door.  And,  suddenly,  the  mechanical 
power  that  had  kept  him  going  appeared  to  snap 
like  the  spring  of  a  watch,  and  he  came  back  with 
a  whirl  and  a  rush  to  clear  consciousness  and  black, 
blinding  fact.  He  knelt  down  beside  Chris — 
dropped  down  beside  him  in  utter  abandon  of 
despair — leaned  his  elbows  on  the  arm  of  the  chair 
and  broke  into  deep,  choking  sobs. 

His  life  had  fallen  mainly  upon  easy, .  happy 
lines.  Things  had  run  smoothly  with  him.  Never 
before  had  he  known  his  capacity  to  feel.  He  re- 
vealed himself  to  himself  in  the  tumultuous  force 
of  the  emotion  that  gripped  him  and  shook  him. 
The  lot  of  an  orphan  without  kindred  elicits  our 
sympathy,  but  at  least  he  is  spared  the  recurring 

210 


THE  JOKE 

shocks  of  the  loss  of  those  near  and  dear  to  him. 
Though  even  there,  even  on  the  score  of  the  trouble 
itself,  he  is  the  loser  as  well  as  the  gainer.  Mau- 
rice's present  pain  was  an  eventual  asset.  A  man 
has  not  lived  till  he  has  suffered.  There  is  a 
strength  that  comes  from  tribulation  which  can 
come  no  other  way. 

He  was  oppressed  (as  everyone  is,  as  everyone 
necessarily  must  be,  in  the  face  of  the  death  of  one 
who  has  been  a  near  and  intimate  companion)  by 
inability  to  grasp  it — to  realise  the  inexorable  truth 
that  he  should  never  again  see  Chris's  bright  smile, 
never  hear  his  cheery  voice  nor  his  jolly  laugh. 
Never.  Never.  It  seemed  incredible  that  fate 
could  hold  in  its  bosom,  and  suddenly  precipitate 
upon  him,  anything  so  awful  as  that. 

He  raised  one  of  the  limp  hands  and  pressed  it 
between  his  own.  "Chris,  are  you  never  going  to 
speak  again?"  he  said  hungrily,  tears  staining  his 
cheeks;  addressing  his  friend  in  death — under  the 
direction  of  some  delicate  intuition — by  the  per- 
sonal name  he  had  never  used  in  his  lifetime. 
"Oh,  I  can't  believe  it!  Speak.  Speak.  Lift  up 
your  head.  Get  up.  Get  up.  Oh!  Oh-h!"  He 
dropped  his  head  in  his  hands  and  groaned  in  the 
utter  misery  of  this  first,  stunning  sorrow. 

211 


THE  YOKE 

Presently  he  went  on  speaking  more  calmly. 
"Yes,  you've  paid,  old  boy — faithfully,  squarely 
paid.  This  is  the  price  which  the  Nonconformist 
Conscience  demands  for  what  you  did,  and  you've 
honestly  settled  up.  Nothing  else  would  appease 
them — quiet  streets,  well  governed  cities — no — 
the  pound  of  flesh,  the  pound  of  flesh.  And  so 
you've  paid  it  them — you  and  thousands  of 
others." 

"And  yet,"  he  shouted,  springing  up  in  a  sudden 
fury  of  anger  and  despair,  "and  yet  they  hope  for 
heaven!" 

Just  as  he  had  plumbed  a  depth  of  grief  hitherto 
unknown  to  him,  so  now  he  realised  unsuspected 
intensity  of  resentment.  He  tramped  the  room 
with  clenched  hands,  his  blood  in  a  white  heat  of 
indignation  against  the  forces  that  had  slain  his 
friend.  He  projected  a  single-handed  crusade 
against  that  grim  body  which  again  and  again  had 
hurled  back  brigades  and  platoons.  At  that  mo- 
ment he  would  have  enjoyed — exquisitely  enjoyed 
— to  have  had  some  smug,  self-righteous  individual 
by  the  throat  and  to  have  wrung  the  life  out  of 
him. 

He  stopped  at  last  before  the  mantelpiece  and 
took  Chris's  note  from  it.  He  touched  it  tenderly, 

212 


THE  YOKE 

as  some  sacred  thing,  and  broke  the  seal  with  a 
sense  of  something  like  sacrilege.  It  contained  a 
single  sheet  of  notepaper,  three  parts  covered  with 
the  childish,  cramped  handwriting  and  short 
phraseology  of  his  friend. 

"DEAR  HEELAS," — it  ran — "I'm  sorry,  but  I 
can't  stick  it  out  after  all.  You  bucked  me  up 
this  afternoon.  But  I've  been  looking  at  facts 
since  you  went.  If  there  was  a  gleam  anywhere 
I  would  hold  on,  but  there  isn't.  So  the  sooner 
the  better.  It's  no  good  shivering  on  the  brink. 
I  can't  say  I  want  to  do  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I'm  in  a  dead  funk.  I'm  going  to  use  morphia. 
It's  the  simplest  thing  I  can  think  of.  It  sends 
you  to  sleep,  and  you  don't  wake.  That's  what 
I've  wished  for  every  time  I've  gone  to  bed,  since 
I  knew. 

"I  talked  a  lot  of  rot  this  afternoon — I've  for- 
gotten quite  what — but  anyway  it  must  have  been 
rot.  I  was  in  a  bad  temper.  I  don't  want  you 
to  think  I'm  going  to  take  the  jump  in  that  sort 
of  spirit.  It's  altogether  different  now  I've  made 
up  my  mind.  My  present  sentiments  spell  peace 
and  goodwill  towards  all  men. 

"If  you  should  happen  to  meet  the  girl  again 
213 


THE  YOKE 

don't  let  her  think  I  blamed  her.  Very  likely  she 
didn't  know.  They  often  don't.  Whether  she 
did  or  not,  I'm  too  sorry  for  her  to  feel  angry.  It 
won't  be  long  before  she  follows  me.  Lord, 
Heelas,  they  do  have  a  shocking  time ! 

"Well,  that's  about  all  I  have  to  say.  The  only 
thing  that  makes  me  sorry  is  the  idea  that  you  may 
be  so — you  and  Cecil — and  the  Mater,  of  course, 
but  she's  different.  I  hope  Cecil  won't  think  I've 
treated  her  shabbily.  It's  sure  to  look  like  it. 

"Good-bye,  old  chap.  Moriturus  te  salutat. 
I  always  fancied  that  phrase. — Your  affectionate 
friend,  C.  GRAHAME. 

"Pinch  anything  of  mine  you  have  a  fancy  for." 

As  Maurice  was  slowly  returning  this  letter  to 
its  envelope  he  heard  a  footstep  in  the  lobby. 
There  was  a  quick  knock,  and  he  looked  up  and 
saw  the  doctor  at  the  door — a  young  man  with  a 
small  light  moustache  and  a  kindly,  intellectual 
face. 

"Oh,"  said  Maurice,  slightly  nervously,  "it's 
good  of  you  to  come  so  quickly."  He  looked  at 
Chris.  "I'm  afraid  you  can't  be  of  any  use,  can 
you?" 

The  doctor  came  and  stood  in  front  of  the  chair, 
214 


THE  YOKE 

and  looked  gravely  at  the  motionless  figure  in 
it. 

"Dear  me !"  he  said.     "Dear  me !" 

He  applied  the  usual  tests  in  silence. 

"He  has  been  dead  some  hours,"  he  said, 
straightening  himself.  "May  I —  Are  you  a 
relative?" 

"No,"  replied  Maurice;  "merely  a  great  friend. 
He  has  no  relatives  in  London.  He  was  out  of 
health,  and  so  I  came  to  see  him  early  this  morn- 
ing, and  this  is  how  I  found  him." 

The  doctor  picked  up  the  syringe,  and  sniffed 
at  the  bottle  on  the  table.  Then  he  rolled  up 
Chris's  left  trouser,  as  Maurice  had  done,  and 
rolled  it  back  again. 

"Do  you  know  why  he  did  it?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Maurice.  "So  will  you,  before 
long." 

The  doctor  understood.  He  had  already  sus- 
pected. 

"It's  a  pity,"  he  said.  "He  was  a  fine  young 
fellow  to  be  caught  in  that  way.  It's  a  pity." 

"It's  always  a  pity,"  said  Maurice. 

"Yes,  it's  always  a  pity,"  the  doctor  agreed. 
"But  you'll  never  alter  it." 

"I  mean  to  try,"  said  Maurice. 


THE  YOKE 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  with  sharp  interest, 
struck  by  the  sudden  intensity  of  his  tone. 

"My  dear  young  man,"  he  said  kindly,  "devote 
your  energies  to  something  better  worth  your  while. 
England  has  made  up  its  mind.  In  cases  of  this 
kind  it  has  only  one  thing  to  say — and  it  will  go 
on  saying  it  until  long  after  you  and  I  are  in  the 
grave — 'Serves  him  right.'  If  fifty  times  as  many 
lives  were  sacrificed  as  actually  are,  it  would  say  it 
just  as  hard."  He  glanced  at  the  still  form  in  the 
chair.  "I'm  older  than  you  are,  and  very  likely  I 
have  had  more  experience.  I've  learnt,  at  all 
events,  that  there  are  some  causes  which,  however 
righteous  and  just  they  may  be,  cannot  get  even 
a  hearing.  Your  moralist  doesn't  take  into  ac- 
count the  physical  composition  of  man  and  his 
physical  necessities.  He  won't  take  it  into  ac- 
count, and  it's  a  waste  of  breath  to  ask  him  to." 

"They're  narrow-minded  idiots!"  exclaimed 
Maurice. 

"Ah,  now  you  are  beginning  to  call  names,"  said 
the  doctor,  smiling.  "That  will  never  advance 
you  a  step." 

"You  didn't  know  what  a  good  sort  he  was," 
cried  Maurice,  brokenly.  "If  there  is  a  heaven, 
I'll  bet  a  hundred  to  one  he  has  gone  there." 

216 


THE  YOKE 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  with  kind  professional 
solicitude.  "This  has  been  a  bit  of  a  shock  to 
you,"  he  said.  "You  never  had  to  do  with  any- 
thing of  the  sort  before." 

"No,"  replied  Maurice. 

"I  thought  not.  Now,  you  had  better  go  home. 
I  will  do  what  is  necessary,  with  the  help  of  the 
steward.  Get  out  into  the  country  this  afternoon, 
and  come  and  see  me  to-morrow,  if  you  can,  be- 
tween two  and  three.  Communicate  with  his 
friends,  of  course." 

"There  will  have  to  be  an  inquest?" 

"Oh,  yes.  You  can  leave  all  that  with  me. 
There  need  be  very  little  publicity.  The  papers 
are  always  discreet  in  cases  of  this  kind." 

He  picked  up  Maurice's  hat  and  umbrella  and 
put  them  in  his  hand. 

"You're  awfully  kind,"  said  the  latter,  half 
mechanically.  He  took  a  last  glance  at  Chris. 
He  was  still  in  the  same  position,  hunched  up  in 
the  chair,  his  head  bowed  on  his  chest.  "It's 
difficult  to  realise,  isn't  it,  that  only  a  few  weeks 
ago  he  was  one  of  the  happiest  and  j  oiliest  fellows 
in  the  world?  Yes,  I'll  _ome  to-morrow." 

He  left  the  room  quietly  and  went  down  the 
stairs  and  out  into  the  street.  For  some  time  he 

217 


THE  YOKE 

walked  on  automatically,  guided  only  by  habit. 
His  faculties  were  all  focussed  on  the  tragedy  he 
had  left  behind  him.  And  now  that  he  was 
removed  from  the  visual  evidence  of  it,  the 
difficulty  of  realising,  of  fixing  upon  his  mind  the 
barren,  absolute  fact,  was  greater  than  before. 
He  struggled  with  it,  struggled  to  make  himself 
understand.  A  very  eternity  seemed  to  have 
elapsed  since  he  had  received  Chris's  short  note  on 
the  previous  morning;  and  yet  it  was  barely 
twenty-four  hours.  All  the  real  suffering  of  his 
life  had  been  crowded  into  them.  He  knew  he 
looked  older,  must  look  older.  Men  don't  grow 
by  gradation,  but  are  jerked  into  age  by  a  series 
of  shocks.  It  is  part  of  the  perpetual  scheme  of 
things,  that  we  are  made  capable  of  deep  attach- 
ment to  our  fellows,  whose  successive  removal 
beats  time  on  our  brows,  until  we  have  been  broken 
to  the  point  at  which  we  ourselves  must  add  to  the 
furrows  of  those  who  came  after. 

When  Maurice  came  back  to  a  full  consciousness 
of  his  surroundings  he  found  that  he  was  in 
Piccadilly,  that  it  had  begun  to  rain,  and  that  his 
umbrella  was  up.  If  he  had  had  any  definite  idea 
about  the  method  of  his  return  home,  it  had  been 
to  walk  down  to  Charing  Cross  and  take  a  District 

218 


THE  YOKE 

train.  Now  that  he  was  so  far  advanced  in  the 
right  direction,  however,  he  determined  to  continue 
on  foot.  He  glanced  irresolutely  at  one  or  two 
empty  hansoms,  but  immediately  went  on  again 
when  the  cabman  seemed  to  be  stopping.  He 
shrank  from  the  confinement.  He  felt  an  impera- 
tive need  to  go  on  walking,  even  in  the  rain,  to 
walk  as  long  and  as  far  as  he  could,  right  out  of 
his  trouble.  After  all,  his  news  would  grow  no 
worse  from  keeping. 

He  chose  the  Green  Park  side  of  the  street,  for 
quietness  and  to  avoid  opposing  umbrellas.  After 
passing  Hyde  Park  Corner  he  ran  into  numbers  of 
people  returning  from  various  places  of  worship 
— some  well-to-do,  some  of  a  humbler  class.  He 
glanced  mechanically  at  several  of  the  groups  as 
they  passed  him.  They  were  chatting  brightly, 
most  of  them,  laughing — often,  evidently,  at  their 
own  discomfiture  in  being  caught  by  the  rain.  He 
had  frequently  seen  such  groups  before  without 
being  struck  by  any  special  characteristic  of  them. 
To-day  they  brought  home  to  him  forcibly  a  very 
interesting  truth  about  his  fellow-creatures,  a  truth 
that  has  been  curiously  missed  by  many  profound 
thinkers:  namely,  how  happy  they  all  are — taken 
as  a  whole,  how  marvellously,  exuberantly  happy  I 

219 


It  was  half-past  twelve  when  eventually  he 
reached  Cumberland  Square.  He  met  Angelica  in 
the  hall. 

"I  was  too  late,"  he  said. 

Angelica  stopped. 

"Dead?" 

"Dead." 

She  turned  white  to  the  lips  and  shuddered 
physically. 

"Oh-h!"  she  moaned.  "This  horrid,  horrid 
world!" 


220 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THAT  same  afternoon  saw  Maurice  arrive  at 
Waterloo  and  enter  the  two-o'clock  train  for 
Haslemere.  None  of  us,  I  suppose,  will  envy  him 
the  mission  that  was  taking  him  there.  Angelica 
had  wanted  to  go  with  him,  and  Maurice  in  his 
heart  would  have  been  infinitely  thankful  for  her 
support.  But  the  very  disinclination  for  the  task 
which  he  felt  himself  told  him  how  much  it  would 
cost  her  to  share  it,  and  he  had  obstinately  refused 
to  let  her  come.  It  was  very  sweet  to  Angelica  to 
allow  herself  at  last  to  be  overruled;  not  because 
of  the  pain  she  would  be  spared,  but  because  of  the 
knowledge  it  brought  her  of  Maurice's  strength- 
ening and  deepening  character. 

And  yet  it  may  be  doubted  whether  he  faced  his 
journey  to-day  with  much  greater  reluctance  than 
he  had  done  that  first  one  to  the  same  destina- 
tion, taken  in  company  with  Chris  nearly  a  year 
before.  His  misgivings,  at  all  events,  were  of  a 
different  quality.  He  had  grown  older  since  then ; 
not  so  much  in  actual  time,  but  in  the  knowledge  of 
the  world  and  in  knowledge  of  himself.  Personal 

221 


THE  YOKE 

diffidence  had  very  little  to  say  to  his  present  con- 
cern. He  had  not  overcome  it — possibly  it  is 
never  entirely  overcome  by  one  originally  put 
under  its  yoke — but  he  had  learnt  to  see  it  in  its 
proper  relative  importance,  and  at  least  had  con- 
trived to  push  it  into  a  secondary  position  as  an 
influence  on  his  actions.  As  he  watched  once  more 
the  lines  of  birches  creeping  past,  on  the  long 
gradient  to  Haslemere,  his  thoughts  were  no  longer 
of  himself  and  the  ordeal  in  front  of  him,  but 
of  Mrs  Grahame  and  Cecil.  He  was  genuinely, 
deeply  distressed  by  the  knowledge  of  the  ex- 
quisite pain  he  must  inflict  upon  them.  He  was 
feeling,  not  "how  awkward  it  will  be  to  tell !"  but 
"how  terrible  it  will  be  to  hear!" 

There  was  a  walk  of  half  a  mile  from  the  station 
to  Mrs  Grahame's  house — a  walk  which  he  took 
to-day  in  the  midst  of  that  subtly  pervading  odour 
of  bad  cigars  peculiar  to  Sunday  afternoons  in  the 
country.  When  he  reached  the  house  and  pushed 
open  the  door  in  the  garden  wall  and  walked  up 
the  short  flagged  path — everything  silent,  bright, 
peaceful — he  felt  like  a  dynamiter  stealing  into 
a  sleeping  dwelling  to  destroy  it.  The  maid  who 
admitted  him  said  that  Mrs  Grahame  was  at  home, 
but,  recognising  him,  added  confidentially  that 

222 


THE  YOKE 

she  was  lying  down  upstairs.  So  too,  it  appeared, 
was  Miss  Gaskell.  Miss  Grahame,  however,  was 
in — and,  presumably,  awake.  Maurice,  accord- 
ingly, asked  to  be  allowed  to  see  her,  and  was 
shown  into  the  drawing-room. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  he  was  relieved  to  find 
his  interview  was  to  be  with  Cecil.  That  was  far 
from  being  the  case.  Of  the  two,  he  felt  now  it 
would  have  been  less  difficult  to  tell  Mrs  Grahame. 
He  hated  the  thought  of  hurting  Cecil.  And  here, 
let  it  be  said,  he  was  no  longer  free  from  personal 
concern  in  the  matter.  He  fancied  he  must  ever 
after  remain  in  her  mind  a  messenger  of  woe,  whose 
coming  she  would  instinctively  dread. 

Well,  that  must  be  borne.  His  news  must  be 
told,  and  to  Cecil.  She  did  not  keep  him  long  in 
suspense.  Fortunately  for  him  she  was  not  one 
of  those  members  of  her  sex  who  allows  a  visitor 
to  kick  his  heels  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and 
eventually  appears  with  the  statement  vividly 
placarded  upon  her  that  the  interval  has  been 
spent  in  intimate  communion  with  a  toilet-table. 
Cecil  always  looked  well,  but  the  effort  which  had 
gone  to  achieve  that  result  was  never  obtrusive. 
Maurice  had  time  only  to  walk  to  the  window,  to 
stare  for  a  moment  mechanically  at  the  clump  of 

223 


THE  YOKE 

pine  on  the  distant  hill-top,  and  to  turn  round. 
He  could  feel  his  heart  beating  quickly,  but  he 
was  thoroughly  master  of  himself.  Then  the  door 
opened  and  she  came  in,  quietly,  with  a  gentle 
rustle  of  skirts.  She  was  wearing  a  gown  of  soft 
rose-coloured  material,  and  looked  infinitely  fresh 
and  fragrant,  infinitely  like  some  new-petalled 
tea-rose.  Oh,  heaven!  to  take  it  cruelly  in  one's 
hand  and  crush  it ! 

"This  is  really  delightful  of  you,  Maurice,"  she 
said,  smiling,  coming  forward  with  the  graceful 
elegance  that  was  inseparable  from  her.  "You 
can't  imagine  how  welcome  you  are.  Mother  and 
Aunt  Annie  make  Sunday  a  day  of  rest  in  a  literal 
sense,  and  I  was  getting  desperately  tired  of  my 
own  society." 

Maurice  took  her  hand.  Then  he  laid  his  other 
on  the  top  of  it. 

"Cecil,  I'm  awfully  sorry — it's  best  to  get  it 
over — I've  got  some  bad  news." 

She  turned  slowly  very  pale.  The  gentle, 
shielding  tone  told  more  than  the  words.  It  is 
possible  that,  even  then,  she  knew ;  that,  even  then, 
her  sub-conscious  mind  stretched  out  and  grasped 
the  uttermost. 

"It   is   about    Chris?"    she   said   on   the 
224 


THE  YOKE 

of    a    breath.,    staring    at    him    with    frightened 
eyes. 

"Yes." 

"Is  he  ill?" 

Maurice  said  nothing.  He  pressed  her  hand 
more  closely.  For  a  moment  she  looked  away, 
then  her  eyes  met  his  again,  wildly,  fearfully. 

"Dead?"  she  breathed. 

The  word  hung  on  the  air  while  she  waited  for 
the  denial  that  did  not  come.  She  kept  her  gaze 
on  his  face,  staring  straight  at  him,  as  the  seconds 
passed,  with  unseeing  eyes.  He  dropped  his  own; 
he  could  not  look  at  her.  Her  hand  was  still 
clasped  in  his,  and  he  felt  it  quiver.  Then,  after 
a  time,  while  he  still  looked  down,  there  broke 
from  her — so  low  that  only  the  utter  silence  made 
it  audible — the  most  exquisitely  pathetic  sound  he 
had  ever  heard  in  his  life,  half  moan,  half  sob. 
She  swayed  a  little,  and  he  put  an  arm  round  her 
to  keep  her  from  falling.  But  she  gently  released 
herself,  walked  without  assistance  to  a  couch 
and  sat  down  on  it,  resting  her  head  upon  the 
cushion. 

Maurice  went  to  the  door,  intending  to  fetch 
some  stimulant.  She  divined  his  purpose,  how- 
ever, and  interposed. 

225 


THE  YOKE 

"It  isn't  necessary,"  she  said.  "Don't  go  into 
the  hall.  Mother  may  hear  you.  Wait  a  little." 

He  came  back  obediently,  pulled  up  a  chair  and 
seated  himself  beside  her.  Minutes  ticked  on  with- 
out either  speaking — three,  four,  five.  Cecil  was 
resting  with  closed  eyes ;  Maurice  was  staring  dully 
at  the  carpet  between  his  feet. 

"It  was  an  accident?"  said  Cecil  at  last,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"No." 

"Not? — "  She  lifted  her  head  sharply,  a  new 
fear  in  her  face. 

"Yes,  it  was  that,  Cecil,"  replied  Maurice,  stead- 
ily. "I  went  to  see  him  this  morning,  and  I  found 
him — sitting  in  a  chair.  I  don't  think  he  can 
have  suffered  any  pain.  He  was  simply  asleep — 
and  he  didn't  want  to  wake." 

"He — didn't — want  to?" 

"He  hadn't  been  well  for  some  time,"  Maurice 
answered.  "The  doctors  wouldn't  pass  him  for 
the  army  and  it  weighed  on  him." 

"There  must  be  something  more,"  said  Cecil, 
calmly.  "You  must  tell  me  everything,  Maurice. 
I  would  rather  know." 

Maurice  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
his  chin  on  his  hands,  still  staring  at  the  carpet. 

226 


THE  YOKE 

He  had  foreseen  this  difficulty  from  the  beginning 
— from  the  moment  the  obligation  upon  him  to 
break  the  news  had  become  apparent.  To  tell  her 
was  beyond  thought.  And  yet,  how  was  he  to 
explain  his  silence?  She  was  gazing  intently  at 
him,  her  face  composed  now,  but  still  pale,  her 
eyes  dark  and  tense,  and  heavy  with  unshed  tears. 

"There  is  no  more,"  said  Maurice  at  length. 
"I  have  told  you  the  simple  truth,  Cecil;  he  was 
out  of  health — very  much  out  of  health — and  it 
weighed  on  him." 

"But  it  must  have  been  something  so  terrible 
to  lead  to — to  this.  And,  if  so,  why  weren't  we 
told?  How  is  it  that  only  you  knew?  It  seems 
so  strange,  so — so — so  very  odd." 

In  spite  of  her  more  or  less  successful  effort  to 
find  an  innocuous  last  word,  it  was  plain  that  she 
only  half  believed  him,  and  that  she  resented  being 
kept  in  the  dark. 

"I  understand  just  how  you  must  feel,"  said 
Maurice.  "But  you  know  that  some  illnesses  have 
the  effect  of  making  the  patient  very  sensitive  about 
them.  He  can't  bear  to  have  them  mentioned,  to 
have  them  known." 

"But  he  told  you." 

"He  told  me  yesterday." 
227 


THE  YOKE 

"Yesterday!"  said  Cecil,  sharply.  "You  saw 
him  yesterday?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice. 

"Then  you  must  have  had  some  inkling  of  what 
was  in  his  mind?  You  couldn't  have  seen  him  so 
recently  as  that  without  noticing  some  change  in 
him,  unless  you  were  very  blind.  Oh,  why  didn't 
/  see  him  yesterday  ?  Could  you  do  nothing — you 
are  a  man — could  you  make  no  effort  at  all  to  help 
him  and  save  him?" 

She  spoke  very  bitterly,  her  distracting  grief  find- 
ing vent — as  it  so  often  does — in  unreasoning  anger 
against  the  instrument  immediately  responsible  for 
it.  Moreover,  Maurice  had  been  unconsciously 
but  inevitably  feeding  her  sense  of  injury.  In 
times  of  family  bereavement,  there  is  nothing  more 
calculated  to  add  gall  to  our  cup  than  to  find  that 
an  outsider — be  he  never  so  intimate  a  friend — is 
in  possession  of  information  with  regard  to  one  of 
our  own  flesh  and  blood  which  has  not  been 
vouchsafed  to  ourselves. 

"Yes,  I  did  notice  a  change  in  him,"  Maurice 
replied,  without  resentment;  "he  looked  fagged, 
and  was  very  depressed  at  first  and  occasionally 
excited.  I  stayed  with  him  some  time,  and  when 
I  left  he  seemed  in  better  spirits  and  more  like 

228 


THE  YOKE 

himself.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  insisted  on 
spending  the  night  with  him,  but  it  would  have 
looked  rather  like  an  officious  intention  to  watch 
him,  and  he  might — " 

He  stopped.  A  voice  was  speaking  in  the  hall — 
a  voice  which  they  both  recognised.  They  waited, 
looking  at  one  another,  with  indrawn  breaths. 

"It's  mother,"  said  Cecil,  faintly.  "She  will 
come  in  here.  Maurice,  I  can't  tell  her.  Will 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice,  quietly,  getting  up. 

He  accepted  the  office  as  a  matter  of  course. 
It  was  a  task  for  all  that  which  a  man  twice  his  age 
might  have  tried  to  avoid  without  shame — to  tell 
a  mother  of  the  sudden  death  of  her  only  son. 
Cecil  fully  realised  that,  and  as  she  saw  him  get  up 
she  was  conscious  of  a  sudden,  powerful  revulsion 
of  feeling  in  his  favour,  a  revulsion  which  swung 
the  pendulum  far  beyond  where  it  had  ever  stood 
before.  She  was  proud — in  the  midst  of  her  ex- 
quisite sorrow,  she  was  glad  and  proud  that  there 
was  a  man  in  the  world  who,  in  the  face  of  the 
contumely  she  had  just  cast  upon  him,  was  ready 
to  stand  up  unhesitatingly  and  do  this  for  her. 

There  were  a  few  seconds  of  suspense  and  then 
the  door  opened.  Mrs  Grahame  had  tidied  herself 

229 


after  her  sleep  and  looked  neat  and  smiling  and 
refreshed. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Maurice,"  she  said,  coming  in 
briskly.  "I  thought  I  heard  a  man's  voice.  Is 
Chris  in  the  library?" 

"No,"  replied  Maurice,  quietly;  "Chris  is  not 
with  me." 

"Dear,  dear!  that  young  gentleman  is  getting 
into  my  bad  books.  It  must  be  a  month  since  we 
saw  him.  Well,  it's  pleasant  to  be  vouchsafed  a 
glimpse  of  one  of  you.  We  are  three  poor,  lone 
women,  and  we  don't  like  to  be  forgotten." 

"I  am  afraid  you  mustn't  credit  me  with  any 
merely  sociable  intentions  to-day,"  said  Maurice. 
"I  have  come  down  on  a  very  sad  errand,  Mrs 
Grahame.  Chris  cannot  come  any  more." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Mrs  Grahame  gazed  at 
him  sharply,  mystified  and  inclined  to  be  offended. 

"But  why?"  she  said  suddenly,  in  the  quick 
tones  she  used  when  she  was  displeased.  uls  he 
in  some  disgrace?  Has  he  done  something  to 
make  me  ashamed  of  him?  Don't  speak  in  rid- 
dles, Maurice." 

"He  is  out  of  the  reach  of  shame  and  disgrace," 
said  Maurice.  "There  are  no  such  words  where 
Chris  has  gone." 

230 


THE  YOKE 

"Maurice !     Maurice !" 

"He  is  happy — I  am  sure  he  is  happy." 

"But  what  are  you  saying  to  me?  I  don't 
understand  you."  She  looked  at  her  daughter,  but 
gathered  no  relief  from  her  mien.  She  had  begun 
to  weep  softly.  Mrs  Grahame's  voice  rose  to  a 
shout.  "Cecil,  what  is  he  saying  to  me?  Is  he 
mad?  Are  you  both  mad?  Cecil!  Cecil!  Speak!" 

"Yes,  mother,  yes,"  said  Cecil,  getting  up  and 
taking  her  hand.  "I  am  here.  Don't  look  like 
that,  dear.  Perhaps,  in  some  way  we  can't  under- 
stand, it  is  best." 

"Dead!"  cried  Mrs  Grahame,  all  at  once 
breaking  the  bands  that  swathed  her  comprehen- 
sion. "Dead!  Dead!  My  boy  dead!" 

There  was  a  second,  two,  three  seconds,  of  utter 
silence.  Mrs  Grahame's  hands  trembled  up- 
ward, and  the  jewelled  fingers  picked  into  the 
trim  white  locks  on  either  side  of  her  head. 
Then  those  two  young  people,  broken  so  sud- 
denly to  deep  pain,  heard  the  most  terrible  of  all 
sounds — 

"The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother." 

Maurice  jumped  forward  and  caught  her  as  she 
fell.  He  laid  her  on  the  couch. 

231 


THE  YOKE 

"Get  some  brandy,"  said  Cecil,  beginning  to 
unfasten  the  neck  of  her  bodice. 

Her  face  was  bloodless,  save  for  a  faint  tinge 
of  colour  in  her  lips.  For  one  sickening  moment 
Maurice  thought  she  was  dead.  But,  after  a  time, 
the  spirit  they  poured  between  her  lips  induced  a 
slight  return  of  warmth.  She  did  not  readily  re- 
gain consciousness,  however.  She  opened  her  eyes 
once,  and  apparently  dimly  recognised  them,  but 
immediately  closed  them  again.  And  there  was 
a  sigh  in  her  pulse. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go  for  the  doctor,"  said 
Cecil.  "He  lives  at  the  other  end  of  the  village. 
Anyone  will  show  you  the  way.  I  am  afraid  it 
is  her  heart.  We  have  always  known  it  was 
weak." 

"I  broke  it  too  roughly,"  said  Maurice. 

"No,  no;  you  couldn't  have  done  it  more  gently. 
She  was  obliged  to  have  the  shock.  No  one  could 
have  saved  her  it." 

He  went  off,  and  after  chasing  the  doctor  to  a 
house  half  a  mile  from  his  own  and  interrupting  a 
pleasant  social  gathering  in  which  he  was  taking 
a  leading  and  admired  part,  eventually  secured 
him  and  brought  him  back  with  him.  By  that 
time  Mrs  Grahame  had  been  got  upstairs  to  her 

232 


THE  YOKE 

own  room.  The  doctor  remained  with  her  about 
twenty  minutes,  and  then  Maurice  heard  a  maid 
show  him  out  and  close  the  front  door  behind  him. 
For  a  long  while  after  that  he  was  left  alone  in  the 
library  with  his  pipe  and  his  gloomy  meditations. 
But  before  he  had  to  start  for  the  station  to  catch 
his  train,  Cecil  came  downstairs  to  speak  to  him. 

"You  must  go  now,  Maurice,"  she  said. 

"Shall  I  stay  the  night?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  it  isn't  necessary.  The  doctor  says 
there  is  no  immediate  cause  for  anxiety.  But  I 
am  afraid  he  thinks  rather  gravely  of  her."  She 
put  her  slim,  white  hand  into  his.  "I'm  sorry  I 
spoke  unkindly,  Maurice.  It  was  very  mean  of 
me.  I  think  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  saying  just 
then.  You  have  been  very  good  to  us;  you  have 
done  everything  you  possibly  could." 

"Very  good  to  you!"  echoed  Maurice.  "I  feel 
like  a  murderer  who  has  burst  into  a  happy  house 
and  devastated  it." 

He  went  into  the  hall  and  put  on  his  coat. 

"You  will  come  again?"  said  Cecil.  "Often — 
just  the  same  ?  We  shall  want  you  more  than  ever 
now.  You  won't  let  yourself  lose  sight  of  us  be- 
cause— because  Chris  has  gone?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Maurice,  fervently. 

233 


THE  YOKE 

When  he  got  to  the  door  he  turned  and  saw  her 
standing  in  the  centre  of  the  hall — a  tall,  slender 
figure,  very  young,  utterly  sad,  yet  instinct  with 
quiet  dignity  in  every  line  of  her  form.  His  whole 
nature  welled  up  for  her,  and  he  broke  out  spon- 
taneously,— 

"I'm  frightfully  sorry  for  you,  Cecil." 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  "Oh,  don't  speak 
like  that,"  she  said.  "It  makes  me  cry,  and  I 
can't  afford  to  cry  yet,  while  mother  is  ill." 

"I  wish — "  said  Maurice,  and  hesitated. 

"Yes?" 

"I  wish  I  were  your  brother,  Cecil." 

That  made  her  laugh,  and  he  was  glad  he  had 
said  it. 

As  she  walked  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  her 
mother's  room,  Cecil  wondered  if  she  wished  it  too. 


234 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHEN  Maurice  reached  home  he  found 
Angelica  seate'd  at  the  piano,  finding  expression  of 
her  pensive  spirit  in  Chopin's  Nocturne  in  G  major 
— the  still,  small  voice  from  the  soul  of  things. 
He  opened  the  drawing-room  door  gently — not  to 
mar  the  effect  of  one  of  the  tender  notes  softly 
dropping  on  the  air.  Angelica  went  on  till  the 
last  chord  hushed  off  the  strings,  and  then  quietly 
closed  the  piano  and  turned  round. 

"I  always  think  there's  a  culmination  of  that 
theme,"  said  Maurice,  "which  we  shall  only  hear 
on  the  other  side.  We  couldn't  bear  it  here;  it 
would  drag  the  soul  out  of  us  too  soon." 

"How  have  you  got  on?" 

"Oh,  it  has  been  an  awful  shock  to  Mrs  Gra- 
hame.     I  didn't  know  her  heart  was  weak.     Did 
you?" 
.  "What  has  happened?"  said  Angelica,  quickly. 

"She  was  unconscious  for  some  time,  and  the 
doctor  doesn't  take  an  altogether  rosy  view.  Oh, 
Angelica,  it's  frightfully  rough  on  Cecil." 

"Poor  girl — yes,"  said  Angelica.     "I'll  go  down 

235 


THE  YOKE 

to-morrow."  She  got  up.  "I  think  it's  rather 
rough  on  Maurice  too.  You  look  pale,  old  boy." 
So  saying,  she  put  a  hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders, 
looked  solicitously  into  his  face,  and  kissed  him. 
"Come  down  and  have  some  supper." 

She  duly  went  to  Haslemere  the  next  day,  and  re- 
ported, on  her  return,  that  Mrs  Grahame  had  ral- 
lied somewhat,  but  that  she  was  still  in  a  precarious 
state  of  health.  Moreover,  since  recovering  con- 
sciousness she  had  begun  to  ask  questions.  That 
was  a  difficulty  which  had  had  to  be  met.  The  doc- 
tor had  said  emphatically  that  to  submit  her,  for 
the  present,  to  the  further  shock  of  learning  that 
Chris's  death  had  been  self-inflicted  would  be  to 
run  a  risk  for  which  he  was  not  prepared  to  accept 
the  responsibility.  So  half-truths  were  resorted  to. 
She  was  told  that  Chris  had  been  suffering  severely 
in  his  health,  and  that  he  had  died  from  an  over- 
dose of  morphia.  She  was  allowed  to  assume,  if 
not  explicitly  told,  that  the  malady  had  been  of  a 
kind  to  cause  acute  physical  pain,  and  that  the 
morphia  had  been  taken  to  relieve  it. 

There  are  those  who  take  the  quite  reasonable 
position  that  a  falsehood  can  be  justified  by  no  cir- 
cumstances. In  the  present  case,  the  truth 
would  have  carried  with  it,  not  improbably,  Mrs 

236 


THE  YOKE 

Grahame's  death.  It  was  the  plain  question 
whether  human  life  is  worth  preserving  at  the  price 
of  deceit.  That  is  at  least  a  debatable  point;  but 
at  any  rate  Cecil  and  her  aunt  adopted  unhes- 
itatingly the  pretty  general  view  that  it  is. 

They  were  assisted  in  carrying  it  out  by  the  brief 
and  formal  character  of  the  inquest.  Maurice  and 
the  steward  were  the  only  witnesses  called  in  addi- 
tion to  the  doctors,  and  the  former's  account  of 
Chris's  behaviour  on  the  Saturday  afternoon  gave 
a  charitable  jury  sufficient  excuse  to  record  a  ver- 
dict of  temporary  insanity.  This  was  a  relief  to 
them,  not  only  for  itself  but  because  Mrs  Grahame 
had  insisted  from  the  first  upon  seeing  him,  and, 
had  the  funeral  involved  special  features,  it  would 
not  have  been  wise  or  desirable  to  have  moved  him 
from  London  to  his  family  home.  As  it  was,  he 
was  taken  to  Haslemere.  And  so  the  mother 
looked  her  last  on  her  son,  before  he  was  laid  in 
Mother  Earth. 

From  that  time,  though  it  could  not  be  said 
from  day  to  day  that  she  grew  appreciably  weaker 
in  health,  yet  she  failed  to  improve.  The  desire 
of  life  had  become  feeble;  the  spirit  had  gone  out 
of  her.  The  hold  which  elderly  people  have  on 
existence,  especially  those  whose  constitutions 

237 


THE  YOKE 

have  never  been  robust,  is  frequently,  if  not 
generally,  dependent  on  external  circumstances. 
They  get  into  the  habit  of  living,  as  they  get  into 
the  habit  of  doing  other  things.  As  a  break  in 
domestic  routine  disturbs  their  composure,  so  a 
sharp  sentimental  affliction  sucks  up  the  springs 
of  their  vitality.  We  have  noted  that  Chris's 
death  had  been  to  Maurice  the  first  of  that  series 
of  shocks  which  jog  mortals  into  age.  In  Mrs 
Grahame's  case  it  became  sorrowfully  apparent  to 
those  about  her  that  it  was  likely  to  prove  to  be 
the  last. 

Yet,  beyond  the  cardiac  weakness,  she  could  be 
said  to  be  suffering  from  no  actual  malady,  and. 
after  keeping  her  room  about  a  week,  she  came 
down  one  morning  draped  in  shawls,  leaning  heav- 
ily on  Cecil's  arm.  Her  friends  and  neighbours, 
who  came  to  express  their  condolences,  were 
startled  by  the  change  in  her.  From  a,  middle- 
aged,  active  matron  she  had  become,  in  these  few 
days,  an  old  woman. 

During  this  period,  Angelica's  and  Maurice's 
visits  made  almost  the  only  breaks  in  the  monot- 
ony of  Cecil's  life.  She  sat  with  her  mother, 
talked  to  her,  worked  with  her,  read  to  her,  played 
games  of  cribbage  and  backgammon  with  her; 

238 


THE  YOKE 

tried  her  utmost,  through  all,  to  infuse  the  spirit 
of  her  young,  glowing  life  into  the  tired  frame. 
Miss  Gaskell  could  relieve  her  of  the  worries  of 
household  management  and  of  many  of  the  prac- 
tical duties  of  nursing,  but  she  could  not  take  her 
place  with  her  mother.  They  found  that  Mrs 
Grahame  fretted  if  Cecil  remained  long  out  of  her 
sight.  It  was  her  daughter  she  needed. 

One  day  when  Maurice  came  down,  Cecil  went 
to  the  station  to  meet  him. 

"I  want  you  to  take  me  a  walk  before  we  go 
in,"  she  said.  "Will  you?  Right  up  on  one  of 
the  commons.  I  feel  I  want  air — a  whole  month's 
air  in  a  few  breaths." 

"Have  you  never  been  out  since — since  then?" 
Maurice  asked. 

"Never  beyond  the  village,"  said  Cecil. 

They  went  on  to  Blackdown — that  wild  upland 
of  heather  and  gorse,  unharnessed  as  yet  to  the 
uses  of  man — and  looked  down  from  its  solitude 
over  the  wide  expanse  of  fertile  meadow-land 
towards  Guilford,  and,  turning,  saw  behind  them 
the  whole  panorama  of  pine-clad  hills,  culminating 
in  the  long  line  of  the  Hog's  Back  and  the  com- 
manding summit  of  Hindhead.  For  an  hour  they 
filled  their  lungs  with  the  pure  air  and  their  eyes 

239 


THE  YOKE 

with  the  scene  amidst  which  a  great  poet  had 
chosen  to  live  and  to  die. 

On  their  return  they  found  Miss  Gaskell  again 
alarmed  about  her  sister.  Mrs  Grahame  had 
fainted  while  sitting  in  a  chair,  and  Dr  Bryce  had 
been  hastily  sent  for.  He  was  leaving  the  house 
as  Cecil  and  Maurice  came  in. 

"Another  slight  attack,"  he  said,  in  answer  to 
Cecil's  quick  inquiry;  "we  must  expect  them  until 
her  strength  returns.  I  would  not  say  there  is 
cause  for  definite  alarm ;  but  she  needs  care — great 
care.  As  soon  as  she  is  strong  enough  to  bear  a 
journey  we  must  get  her  away  for  a  change.  In 
the  meantime,  keep  her  as  bright  and  cheerful  as 
you  can;  amuse  her,  entertain  her;  try  to  get  her 
to  take  an  interest  in  things  about  her.  I  will 
come  and  see  her  again  in  the  morning." 

That  was  in  March.  During  the  bright,  crisp 
weeks  of  early  spring,  amid  the  manifold  signs  of 
returning  life  about  her,  she  appeared  to  gain  a 
slight  renewal  of  energy ;  but  this  disappeared  with 
the  approach  of  summer,  when  the  dust  began  to 
collect  on  the  trees,  and  the  heat,  which  she  had 
always  found  trying,  sucked  the  freshness  out  of 
the  earth.  Slowly  but  still  perceptibly,  as  the  hot 
days  dragged  through,  her  weakness  increased. 

240 


THE  YOKE 

It  may  perhaps  be  doubted  whether  Cecil  noticed 
it,  in  her  patient  daily  ministrations — whether 
she  saw  how  surely  the  sands  were  running  out 
— but  it  was  fully  apparent  to  Angelica  and  to 
Maurice,  whose  visits  were  separated  by  suffi- 
cient intervals  to  throw  changes  into  relief. 
Among  them,  none  was  more  indicative  of  the 
approaching  deeper  change  than  the  wonderful  and 
subtly  pathetic  softening  of  her  nature.  She  was 
able,  now,  to  find  excuses  even  for  people  whose 
views  and  aims  and  habits  of  life  were  most 
radically  opposed  to  her  own ;  could  recognise  their 
possibly  good  motives  and  honest  endeavour. 
Her  solemn  shake  of  the  head  for  those  of 
whom  she  failed  to  approve  no  longer  obtruded 
itself.  She  was  amiable,  kind,  quiet,  and  most 
surely  dying. 

She  lingered  on  through  June  and  July, 
but  in  the  early  part  of  August  her  life  ebbed 
away. 

"It  doesn't  seem  the  least  bit  right  to  say  that 
she  died,"  Cecil  wrote  to  Angelica;  "she  just  faded 
out  of  life.  The  day  before,  we  thought  she  was 
even  better.  She  came  downstairs  for  several  hours 
and  talked  about  Chris  quite  calmly  and  quietly, 
which  she  very  rarely  could  do." 

241 


THE  YOKE 

When  she  received  this  letter  Angelica  was  visit- 
ing in  North  Devon.  Maurice  was  in  the  Chan- 
nel Islands  with  a  party  of  friends.  So  far  as  any 
arrangements  for  the  future  were  definitely  made 
at  that  time,  they  expected  to  meet  in  town  in 
September.  But  Angelica  had  soon  evolved  an- 
other scheme. 

"I  am  going  to  take  a  cottage  down  here,"  she 
wrote  to  Maurice,  "and  ask  Cecil  to  come  and  stay 
with  us.  (Of  course  you  will  come  too,  or  provide 
a  very  good  excuse.  But  whether  you  come  or 
not,  I  am  going  to  ask  Cecil.)  Poor  child,  it  is 
grievous  to  think  of  what  she  has  gone  through, 
the  last  six  months.  Probably  she  won't  be  able 
to  leave  for  the  present — there  are  always  things 
to  be  done — but  perhaps  by  September  she  could 
come.  It  will  be  lovely  here  then.  The  cottage 
I  want  to  get,  if  I  can,  is  near  Lynton,  overlook- 
ing the  sea.  There  are  trees  about  it,  and  the 
garden  is  flattened  out  of  a  hillside  which  runs 
right  down  to  the  beach.  There  is  a  lovely  view 
of  the  bay  and  the  red  sandstone  cliffs  curving 
round  it  and  the  pines.  I  am  sure  it  will  do  her 
good,  if  we  can  make  her  come.  I  shall  go  to- 
morrow about  the  cottage.  I'm  so  afraid  of  it 
being  snapped  up  if  I  wait.  So  if  I  get  it,  and 

242 


THE  YOKE 

Cecil  refuses  to  come,  imagine  me  with  an  eight- 
roomed  cottage  on  my  hands." 

A  week  later  she  wrote : — 

"I've  got  the  cottage — four  guineas  a  week.  I 
don't  think  it's  exorbitant,  there's  quite  a  lot  of 
room  in  it — five  bedrooms  and  two  sitting-rooms, 
besides  a  good-sized  hall  and  a  very  useable 
veranda  on  the  sea  side.  Of  course  it  is  quite 
simply  furnished,  but  comfortably — nothing  to  jar 
at  all  seriously,  don't  be  afraid.  It  can  be  worked 
by  two  servants.  I  shall  send  for  one  of  the  maids 
from  Cumberland  Square  and  try  and  find  an- 
other locally.  I've  taken  it  from  the  ist  of  Sep- 
tember, but  Cecil  can't  come  until  the  loth.  Miss 
Gaskell  is  going  to  stay  with  some  friends  on  that 
day,  and  Cecil  doesn't  like  to  leave  her  alone  by 
coming  away  earlier.  She  writes  quite  brightly  at 
the  prospect  of  coming — I'm  so  glad  it  occurred 
to  me.  By-the-bye,  could  you  trust  any  of  those 
friends  of  yours  to  take  care  of  her?  If  so,  bring 
him  with  you  and  let  them  meet.  Imagine  me 
turning  matchmaker !  But  if  ever  marriage  was 
'the  best  of  all  ways,'  it  seems  to  be  such  in  Cecil's 
case  now." 

Maurice's  friends,  however,  had  to  return  to 
their  respective  homes  or  to  other  bourns  in  the 

243 


THE  YOKE 

early  days  of  September,  and  so  he  arrived  at 
Lynton  in  solitary  state.  Angelica,  by  then,  was 
installed  in  her  cottage.  For  a  week  they  were 
alone  there  together.  The  weather  was  perfect. 
They  walked  along  the  undulating,  picturesque 
cliffs,  they  explored  the  breezy  Exmoor  scenery, 
they  sat  on  the  beach  or  in  the  garden  of  the  cot- 
tage and  read  Lorna  Doone  for  the  second  time. 
It  was  a  week  which  was  destined  to  remain  mem- 
orable to  Angelica. 

One  night  she  said  abruptly,  "Maurice,  your  hair 
wants  cutting.  You  had  better  go  to  town  and 
have  it  done." 

"To  town?"  said  Maurice,  amazed. 

"Yes;  and,  since  you  will  be  there,  you  can 
take  advantage  of  the  fact  to  bring  Cecil  back  with 
you." 


244 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  came  about,  therefore,  that  when  Cecil  Gra- 
hame  alighted  from  her  train  at  Waterloo,  on  the 
morning  of  the  loth  of  September,  she  found 
Maurice  waiting  for  her  on  the  platform.  At  this 
time  she  was  necessarily  the  victim  of  that  curious 
convention  called  "going  into  mourning."  It 
lingers  doggedly,  as  customs  will,  though  few  of  us 
probably,  if  asked,  would  really  wish  our  friends 
to  express — one  cannot  say  their  grief  at  our  de- 
parture, because  the  thing  is  not  dependent  on  grief 
— but  their  recognition  of  it,  by  this  lugubrious 
parade  of  "sombre  black."  Still,  we  are  advancing. 
We  have  got  rid  of  the  plumed  hearses  and  the 
mutes.  Some  day — it  is  not  too  much  to  hope — 
we  may  get  rid  of  the  "mourning." 

In  the  meantime,  it  holds  but  slightly  diminished 
sway;  and  so,  as  Cecil  had  lost  both  her  mother 
and  her  brother,  she  had  duly  dressed  herself  in 
black.  Her  deep  sorrow  could  not  be  intensified 
by  it;  neither  could  it  be  lessened.  Simply  custom 
required  her  to  advertise  the  fact  that  she  had  suf- 
fered recent  bereavement,  and  she  had  obeyed  it. 

245 


THE  YOKE 

Maurice  had  been  waiting  her  arrival  somewhat 
nervously;  vaguely  expecting  to  see  her  tearful  and 
drooping,  hardly  knowing  how  his  greeting  should 
be  voiced.  Therefore  he  was  considerably  re- 
lieved, when  the  train  had  discharged  its  burden, 
to  espy  her,  among  the  crowd,  coming  towards  him 
with  a  frank  smile. 

"I  really  think  you  are  the  kindest  creature  in 
the  world,"  she  said,  "to  come  all  this  way  to  meet 
me." 

"Oh,  good  gracious,  nothing  of  the  sort!"  he 
expostulated.  "I  had  some  other  things  to  do." 

"What  were  they?"  said  Cecil,  firmly. 

"They  wouldn't  interest  you,"  said  Maurice, 
hurrying  on  towards  the  cab-rank  with  her  hand- 
baggage;  "to  get  my  hair  cut  and  things  of  that 
sort." 

Cecil,  following  breathlessly  in  his  wake,  laughed 
with  genuine  enjoyment,  as  she  had  not  done  for 
months,  laughed  with  merry  derision. 

She  pressed  him  unmercifully.  "I  want  to 
know  what  'the  things  of  that  sort'  are?" 

Maurice  hailed  a  hansom.     "Where  are  your 
things?"   he  said,   avoiding  the  point.     "At  the 
back?     How  many?     Two.     All  right.    Jump  in 
-I'll  find  them." 

246 


THE  YOKE 

He  helped  her  into  the  cab,  placed  the  small 
things  on  the  footboard,  and  darted  away  after  the 
heavy  luggage. 

"Now,"  said  Cecil,  returning  to  the  charge 
when  he  had  taken  his  seat  by  her  side,  "tell  me, 
please,  how  you  have  spent  every  minute  of  your 
time  since  you  came  to  town  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Maurice,  submitting — perhaps  not 
altogether  unwillingly,  for  there  was  a  subtle  de- 
light in  it — to  be  cross-examined,  "I  arrived  at  six 
last  night." 

"Went  to  Cumberland  Square?" 

"Yes." 

"Had  dinner?" 

"Yes." 

"What  then?" 

"Read  a  book,"  said  Maurice,  "a  poor  one,  and 
went  to  bed." 

"Honour  bright?"  said  Cecil,  quizzing  him. 

"Absolutely." 

"What  was  it  called?" 

"I've  forgotten,"  said  Maurice,  after  think- 
ing. 

"Very  feeble,"  said  Cecil.  "However,  we  will 
give  you  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  What  time  did 
you  have  breakfast?" 

247 


THE  YOKE 

"Nine,"  said  Maurice,  cautiously,  "nine  to  half- 
past." 

"That  means  half-past.  You  would  read  the 
paper  at  the  same  time,  so  it  would  take  you  till 
ten.  There  was  no  hurry,  you  see,  as  my  train 
didn't  arrive  till  half-past  eleven." 

"But  I  had  to  get  my  hair  cut,"  Maurice  re- 
minded her  quite  indignantly. 

"You  really  did  have  it  cut?" 

He  took  off  his  hat.  "Can't  you  see?"  he  said, 
tenderly  smoothing  the  proof  of  his  words.  "The 
man  who  did  it  was  one  of  those  fellows  who  take 
a  little  hand-glass  when  they've  finished  and  show 
you  all  round  the  back.  I  said  it  was  just  as  I 
liked  it.  I  wonder  if  anybody  ever  says  anything 
else?" 

"That  was  about  half-past  ten?" 

"About,"  said  Maurice,  feeling  himself  getting 
edged  into  a  corner. 

"In  Bond  Street?" 

"No,  at  HarrodsV 

"Twenty  minutes  from  Waterloo.  What  did 
you  do  with  the  other  forty?" 

"I  went  downstairs  and  bought  some  cigar- 
ettes. You  can't  get  any  decent  cigarettes  at 
Lynton,"  he  added,  with  a  really  creditable 

,248- 


THE  YOKE 

attempt   to    invest   the    statement   with    adequate 
gravity. 

"The  return  fare  from  Lynton  is  at  least  three 
pounds,  and  Harrods  deliver  post  free.  I  hope 
you'll  never  have  such  a  weak  case  as  this  to  con- 
duct in  court,  Maurice."  She  was  thoroughly 
enjoying  herself.  "What  next?" 

"I  went  down  to  the  smoke-room  for  half  an 
hour." 

"And  then?"  quite  breathless,  her  eyes  spark- 
ling as  she  looked  at  him. 

"Oh,  I  drove  to  Waterloo,"  cried  Maurice, 
relinquishing  his  last  breastwork  with  a  sort  of 
laugh,  which  Cecil  instantly  covered  with  the 
brighter  ring  of  triumph  that  had  been  breaking 
on  her  lips. 

"It's  perfect  nonsense,  all  the  same,  Cecil," 
Maurice  continued  quickly,  "to  try  to  make  out 
that  it  means  the  least  bit  of  hardship  or  self- 
sacrifice  for  me  to  come  and  meet  you.  It's  a  relief 
to  see  town  again  after  six  weeks'  exile.  I've  had 
quite  a  good  time  here  and  enjoyed  every  bit  of  it. 
Even  now,  though  you're  trying  to  make  me  look 
foolish,  I'm  enjoying  it  tremendously.  And  I'm 
most  awfully  thankful  to  find  you  so  decently  well 
and  cheerful." 

249 


THE  YOKE 

The  horse,  with  a  jingle,  swung  them  from  side 
to  side  through  the  quick  turns  of  Mayfair. 

Cecil  suddenly  and  spontaneously  took  hold  of 
Maurice's  arm  and  pressed  it.  "You're  so  good 
to  me,  Maurice,"  she  said. 

Now,  at  this  gentle,  unexpected  pressure, 
Maurice  felt  a  decided  thrill — there  was  no  doubt 
about  it,  it  was  clearly  and  unmistakably  a  thrill— 
and  it  somewhat  alarmed  him.  He  knew,  from 
instinct  and  from  books,  that  in  such  circum- 
stances people  were  liable  to  feel  thrills;  but  he 
was  not  at  all  prepared  for  such  an  experience  him- 
self. He  thought  that  Angelica  had  made  him 
immune  from  them,  as  she  had  from  Chris's 
temptations.  Yet  it  was  utterly  delicious ;  and  for 
a  few  moments  he  held  himself  very  still — as  you 
might  if  a  robin  had  perched  on  your  shoulder — 
lest  she  should  withdraw  her  hand. 

"Of  course  that's  all  rot,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  suddenly  slightly  constrained.  '  "I  don't 
the  least  mind  receiving  my  due  if  I've  really  done 
anything  to  earn  it — nobody  does — especially  from 
you — but  I  haven't  got  the  conscience  to  accept  it 
in  regard  to  this,  much  as  I  should  like.  I've  sim- 
ply been  pleasing  myself." 

Cecil    did    withdraw    her    hand,    but    slowly, 
250 


THE  YOKE 

quietly — not  in  such  a  way  as  to  convey  the 
impression  that  she  thought  she  had  received  a 
rebuff.  So  Maurice  felt  that  his  conduct  of  the 
little  circumstance  had  not  been  amiss.  And 
therein  possibly  he  was  justified.  For  when  a 
woman  makes  a  trifling  advance  it  is  not  so  easy  to 
hit  that  exquisite  mean  between  too  great  a  fervour 
of  appreciation,  which  may  frighten  her,  and  so 
elaborate  a  show  of  nonchalance  as  will  wound  her 
pride. 

"I  don't  mean  this  time  only,"  said  Cecil,  be- 
coming pensive.  "I  was  thinking  of  how  you  have 
behaved  always,  ever  since  I  knew  you — you  and 
Angelica." 

"How  long  is  that?"  said  Maurice,  bustling  on, 
eager  to  keep  her  thoughts  from  her  trouble. 

"Since  I've  known  you?" 

"Yes." 

"How  long  have  I  been  alive?"  she  replied. 

"Yes;  well,  how  long  have  you?  I'm  twenty- 
three." 

"You  can  ask  me  that  question  now,"  said  Cecil, 
smiling,  "but  you  mustn't  in  ten  years." 

"Of  course  I  know  you  are  about  twenty  or 
twenty-one,"  said  Maurice,  "but  I'm  not  sure 
which." 

251 


THE  YOKE 

"I  was  twenty-one  last  week,"  she  answered. 

"Last  week !  Good  Heavens !  And  we  never 
knew  or  never  remembered !  Why —  "  He  pushed 
up  the  trap  with  his  umbrella.  "Stop  at  the  first 
jeweller's,"  he  said  to  the  driver. 

"I  shall  be  really  angry  if  you  do,"  cried  Cecil, 
turning  upon  him  sharply.  "I'm  not  joking,  Mau- 
rice. I  shall  be  very,  very  cross." 

"Then  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  submit  to 
it,"  replied  Maurice,  calmly,  "much  as  it  will  pain 
me.  We  can't  let  your  twenty-first  birthday  pass 
without  recognising  the  fact.  Angelica  would  be 
awfully  upset." 

The  cab  pulled  up  and  he  jumped  out.  "Come 
along,"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Cecil,  firmly,  "I  sha'n't,  I  really 
sha'n't,  Maurice.  You  are  making  me  feel  so  un- 
comfortable." 

"All  right,  then,  stay  where  you  are,"  he  said 
gaily,  and  disappeared  into  the  shop. 

He  emerged  in  about  five  minutes  and  again 
took  his  ceat  by  her  side. 

"From  Angelica  and  me,"  he  said,  slipping  a 
small  package  into  her  hand.  "And  I  hope  you'll 
have  the  very  best  of  luck  for  all  the  rest  of  your 
life,  Cecil,  if  only  to  square  the  balance." 

252 


THE  YOKE 

She  made  no  reply,  but  slowly  unfastened  the 
string  from  the  box  which  he  had  given  her,  lifted 
the  lid,  and  took  out  a  red  morocco  case.  She 
opened  it  and  revealed  a  small  diamond  and  pearl 
brooch  lying  on  a  bed  of  plush. 

"Don't  blame  me  for  the  design,"  said  Maurice, 
with  a  laugh.  "There  wasn't  much  choice.  I 
wish  I  had  known  before  we  crossed  Picca- 
dilly." 

Few  women  are  so  free  of  vanity  that  they  can 
look  at  a  pretty  piece  of  jewellery,  when  it  is  pre- 
sented to  them  for  their  own,  without  some  show 
of  emotion.  In  Cecil's  case,  it  took  a  peculiar 
form.  She  saw,  not  only  the  sparkling  toy,  but 
all  that  lay  behind  it.  Her  fortitude,  bravely 
sustained  until  that  moment,  gave  way  before 
this  spontaneous  kindness.  First  one  tear,  and 
then  a  second,  fell  among  the  packings  on  her 
lap. 

"Oh,  what  an  ass  I  am !"  exclaimed  Maurice, 
bitterly  vexed  with  himself. 

Cecil  dashed  away  the  tears.  "No,  you're 
not,"  she  cried,  looking  at  him  with  shining  eyes, 
"you're  not  an  ass,  Maurice.  You  are  much  too 
good  aad  kind,  and  that  is  what  made  me  cry,  like 
a  goose.  I  think,"  she  said,  beginning  to  laugh, 

253 


THE  YOKE 

"I  must  be  like  that  man  in  one  of  Gilbert  and 
Sullivan's  operas,  who  says  he  'only  yields  to  kind- 
ness.' It's  a  dear!"  she  exclaimed  fervently,  look- 
ing at  the  brooch.  "I  shall  love  it." 

She  continued  to  gaze  at  it  for  some  moments 
with  a  sort  of  childish  delight.  Then  she  closed 
the  case  and  returned  it  to  its  box. 

She  gave  it  back  to  Maurice.  "Take  care  of  it 
for  me,"  she  said,  "until  we  get  to  Lynton." 

It  was  a  long  journey  from  Paddington,  but  it 
did  not  appear  particularly  so  to  either  of  them. 
For  one  thing,  the  heavy  passenger  traffic  at  that 
date  was  chiefly  in  the  reverse  direction,  and  so, 
for  the  major  portion  of  the  time,  they  had  their 
compartment  to  themselves,  which  allowed  them 
to  talk  without  constraint.  Cecil  did  not  repeat 
her  slight  breakdown.  Indeed,  the  reaction  after 
the  long  strain  of  the  last  half  year  induced  a 
superficial  buoyancy  beyond  her  normal  wont. 
Youth,  unless  it  has  been  broken  by  a  childhood 
of  wretchedness,  submits  hardly  to  be  subdued  for 
months  to  a  minor  key,  and  eagerly  seeks  the  first 
outlet  for  its  ebullient  spirit.  Cecil  looked  steadily 
forward:  she  struggled  to  refuse  to  let  her  mind 
look  back.  She  felt  that  she  wanted  never  to  see 
the  house  at  Haslemere  again — never,  never  again. 

254 


THE  YOKE 

She  was  going  into  a  new  country,  among  new 
scenes  and  new  faces — but  the  faces  were  of  old 
and  dear  and  tried  friends — and  the  knowledge 
stole  into  her  soul  like  myrrh  and  rose  from  it  again 
and  again  in  delicious  gushes,  flowing  through  her 
with  a  warm  glow  of  joyous  surety.  And  then 
suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  an  outburst,  she  would 
think  that  it  was  not  right  of  her  to  be  so  light- 
hearted,  that  Maurice  would  misunderstand  her, 
and  she  would  check  herself. 

But  Maurice  not  only  understood  her  perfectly 
well,  but  did  everything  he  could  to  encourage  and 
incite  her.  If  ever  she  gazed  for  a  few  moments 
thoughtfully  out  of  the  window,  he  recalled  her  to 
the  present  with  some  inconsequent  remark  that 
arrested  by  its  very  irrelevancy.  He  talked  non- 
sense to  the  utmost  that  was  in  him.  And,  all  the 
while,  he  was  quite  conscious  that,  although  he 
might  be  doing  his  duty,  he  was  having  an  excellent 
time. 

"Do  you  know  that  Angelica  has  turned  match- 
maker, Cecil?"  he  said  suddenly,  to  break  one  such 
pensive  period. 

"Angelica!" 

"She  thought  it  would  be  a  good  idea  if  I  got 
down  to  Lynton  some  nice,  honest,  sober,  truS*- 

255 


THE  YOKE 

worthy  friend  of  mine,  warranted  quiet  in  double 
harness,  with  a  view  to  eventualities." 

Cecil  blushed  and  laughed.  "You  are  trying  to 
make  fun  of  me,  Maurice.  I  don't  think  it's  kind 
of  you." 

"I'm  as  serious  as  a  judge,"  said  he,  uas  some 
judges,"  he  corrected,  with  a  lively  recollection 
of  certain  uproariously  recognised  jocularities  from 
the  bench. 

"But — but  you  haven't — Oh,  dear!"  said  Cecil, 
laughing,  and  stopped. 

"Oh,  no,  he  is  not  waiting  there — you  needn't 
be  alarmed.  The  truth  is,  I  can't  conscientiously 
say  that  any  of  my  friends  fully  answers  the  de- 
scription." 

"You  are  incorrigible  this  afternoon,  Maurice," 
said  Cecil,  "but  Fm  glad  there  won't  be  any 
strangers.  I'm  very  selfish,  but  I  want  to  have 
you  both  to  myself,  especially  Angelica." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Maurice,  with  exaggerated 
umbrage.  "That's  the  worst  of  having  Angelica  to 
live  with;  one  always  has  to  play  second  fiddle." 

"Oh,  it  will  all  be  lovely,  I  know !"  exclaimed 
Cecil,  fervently. 

"Well,  I  think  you  will  exclude  the  drawing- 
room  wall-paper,"  said  Maurice. 

256 


THE  YOKE 

"I  wouldn't  mind  any  wall-paper,  or  anywhere, 
or  anything,  with  Angelica,"  said  Cecil. 

Maurice  changed  his  tone.  "Are  you  so  fond 
of  her?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  with  the  air  of  stating 
a  fact  so  inevitable  and  self-evident  as  scarcely  to 
need  expression. 

Maurice  in  his  turn  became  pensive.  "I'm  so 
glad,"  he  said,  after  several  seconds  had  elapsed. 

Angelica  met  them  at  Lynton  with  a  small  pony- 
trap  which  she  drove  herself. 

"Tired  out?"  she  said,  looking  into  Cecil's 
face. 

"No,"  said  Cecil,  "not  a  bit  tired.  Maurice  has 
been  a  splendid  companion.  I  never  knew  he  was 
so  amusing." 

Maurice  was  getting  the  luggage  out. 

"Oh,  don't  let  him  think  he  is  a  humorist,"  said 
Angelica,  laughing,  "or  he'll  give  us  a  terrible 
time." 

The  pony  was  of  the  sort  that  women  drive — 
fully  master  of  the  situation,  regulator  of  the  pace 
and  institutor  of  the  halts.  He  was  quite  unen- 
cumbered by  a  sense  of  dignity.  There  was  a 
certain  spring  beside  the  road,  at  which  he 
regarded  himself  as  having  a  prescriptive  right, 

257 


THE  YOKE 

whatever  his  passengers'  urgency,  to  stop  and 
drink.  Angelica  had  weakly  admitted  his  claim 
when  he  first  put  it  forward,  and  thereafter  had 
become  his  slave.  On  the  present  occasion,  having 
satisfied  a  very  trifling  thirst,  he  availed  himself  of 
his  mistress's  temporary  preoccupation  with  Cecil 
to  transfer  his  muzzle  to  the  surrounding  grass  and 
begin  to  browse. 

"Oh,  look  here,  Angelica,"  cried  Maurice, 
stretching  forward  and  snatching  the  whip, 
"there's  a  limit  to  everything." 

"Don't  whip  him,  Maurice,"  said  Angelica. 
"Poor  old  boy,  he  has  a  heavy  load,  remember." 

"He's  the  most  thorough-going  humbug  that 
ever  breathed,"  replied  Maurice,  administering, 
however,  a  castigation  hardly  more  severe  than 
Angelica  herself  might  have  found  heart  to  apply. 

By  such  means  they  eventually  covered  the  two 
miles  a  little  faster  than  they  could  have  walked 
it,  and  reached  the  cottage  just  as  the  sun  was 
setting  behind  the  line  of  cliff  to  the  west.  The 
windows  of  the  house  caught  the  light  and  reflected 
it  in  vivid  colour. 

"It's  a  perfect  Paradise,"  exclaimed  Cecil,  en- 
thusiastically. 

All  the  evening  she  kept  up  her  spirits,  but  when, 
258 


THE  YOKE 

following  her  old  custom,  she  went  into  Angelica's 
room  after  undressing,  she  stole  into  her  arms,  put 
her  head  upon  her  shoulder,  and  let  herself  weep. 
For  a  while  we  may  leave  her  there,  well  assured 
that  whatever  of  comfort,  whatever  of  strength 
and  hope  human  lips  and  human  sympathy  can 
give,  that  she  received  in  full  measure. 


259 


CHAPTER  XX 

CECIL  looked  up  from  the  book  she  was  reading 
and  gazed  meditatively  out  to  sea.  It  was  very 
blue  that  day,  reflecting  the  blue  sky,  save  here  and 
there  where  a  breaker  sparkled.  In  the  distance, 
almost  on  the  sky-line,  a  few  heavy  cargo-boats 
were  slowly  making  their  way  along  the  great 
water-way  to  and  from  Bristol. 

Cecil  had  now  been  a  week  at  Lynton — a  week 
that  had  passed  in  uninterrupted  peace,  and  had 
given  her  back  the  soft  bloom  and  clear  skin 
ravaged  by  the  previous  months  of  confinement 
and  anxiety.  Looking  back  across  that  little 
space  of  sunny  calm,  the  tragedy  of  the  time 
before  seemed  unreal.  It  had  left  its  effect  upon 
her  immutably — she  was  strengthened  and  deep- 
ened, as  Maurice  had  been,  in  essential  character- 
istics— but  her  faculties  found  it  difficult  to  focus, 
in  retrospect,  as  an  actual  and  veritable  part  of 
her  life.  The  sun  and  the  light  at  Lynton,  the 
quiet  days  on  the  pleasant  uplands,  the  spontaneous 
kindness  which  surrounded  her,  had  thrown  a  warm 

260 


THE  YOKE 

haze  across  the  unhappy  past.  She  saw  it  as 
through  the  quivering  heat  mists  that  rise  on  a 
summer  day. 

She  was  seated  in  a  cushioned  wicker  chair  on 
the  veranda.  She  had  been  there  all  afternoon, 
reading  and  idly  watching  the  shipping  in  the 
estuary.  From  time  to  time  Maurice  or  Angelica 
had  joined  her  for  a  few  moments  and  gone  away 
again.  Just  now  she  was  alone,  but  she  could 
hear  Maurice's  pen  scratching  in  the  room  behind 
her,  through  the  open  French  window. 

"How  do  you  spell  'dependent,'  Cecil?"  he 
called  out  suddenly. 

"D-e-p-e-n-d — "  began  Cecil,  glibly,  and 
stopped.  "Do  you  mean  the  noun  or  the  ad- 
jective?" 

"The  adjective,"  said  Maurice. 

"Well,  then,  it's  V — no,  it's  'a' — no,  it's  not, 
it's  'e,'  I'm  not  sure,"  she  said  finally.  "I  knew 
before  you  asked  me.  It's  being  asked  how  to 
spell  things  that  makes  one  a  bad  speller." 

"What  am  I  to  do — make  a  blot?" 

"Get  a  dictionary,"  she  called  back. 

He  came  out  upon  the  veranda.  "There's  not 
a  dictionary  in  the  house,"  he  said,  "and  I'm 
writing  to  Kenyon — he's  sure  to  know  how  it's 

261 


THE  YOKE 

spelt."  He  took  up  the  book  from  her  lap.  "What 
are  you  reading?" 

"It's  rather  an  old  one.  I  got  it  out  of  the 
little  library  here." 

"  The  Wages  of  Sin — yes,  I  remember  it." 

"Don't  tell  me  the  end,"  she  said  hastily. 

"It's  not  necessary,"  said  Maurice.  "A  book 
with  that  name  tells  the  end  on  the  title-page." 

"I  was  hoping  against  hope  that  it  didn't." 

Maurice  turned  over  the  pages  mechanically, 
and  then  handed  it  back  to  her,  open  at  the  spot 
where  she  was  reading. 

"It's  a  fine  book,"  he  said.  "It's  a  pity  it's 
spoilt  by  the  hint  at  the  end  that  the  heroine  may 
lower  herself  to  marriage  with  that  'goodly  youth.' 
I  hate  an  immaculate  man." 

Cecil  was  silent. 

"Don't  you,  Cecil?"  he  asked,  a  little  anxiously. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  know  exactly  what  you 
mean  by  'immaculate,'"  she  said.  "I  don't  like 
a  goody  man." 

"Oh,  but  he  may  fall  short  of  that  and  yet  be 
an  offence.  Take  an  automaton,  innocent  of  so 
much  as  a  remnant  of  an  original  idea,  of  one 
spark  of  imagination;  wind  it  up  to  think  and  act 
precisely  as  our  forefathers  have  laid  it  down  that, 

262 


THE  YOKE 

in  their  opinion,  it  is  good  for  us  to  think  and  act; 
clothe  it  well,  wash  it  well,  and  you  have  this 
'goodly  youth-'  ' 

"But  he  is  manly  and  trustable  and  straight- 
forward," said  Cecil. 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice,  "and  rich  and  handsome. 
He  fulfils  every  condition  which  a  careful  mamma 
could  wish  to  find  in  a  prospective  son-in-law. 
But  a  complex  character  like  this  heroine — what  is 
her  name? — could  never  be  happy  with  a  man  of 
that  kind.  He  would  bore  her  to  extinction.  A 
woman  of  intellect  and  imagination  needs  a  com- 
panion who  sees  things  clearly  and  calmly  through 
his  brain,  and  not  through  some  other  channel, 
vaguely  called  'feeling'  and  'soul,'  but  really  preju- 
dice." 

"Of  course  that  has  rather  a  clever  and  plausible 
sound,"  said  Cecil,  resting  her  chin  on  her  hands 
and  gazing  at  the  blue  expanse  in  front  of  her, 
"but  if  you  mean  that  brain  is  the  only  thing,  or 
even  the  chief  thing,  to  be  considered,  I  don't  agree 
with  you  a  bit.  There  is  an  ingredient  in  our 
compositions  which  is  neither  body  nor  intellect, 
and  which  certainly  is  not  prejudice.  What  is  it 
makes  us  enjoy  that  view  over  the  sea,  or  listening 
to  good  music,  or  feel  pain  at  the  sight  or  knowl- 

263 


THE  YOKE 

edge  of  suffering?  It  is  not  our  brains.  I  think 
if  we  were  to  be  guided  by  mind  entirely  we  should 
often  be  led  astray." 

She  had  not  looked  at  him  while  she  spoke,  and 
she  continued  to  gaze  seaward,  her  face  wearing 
a  somewhat  rapt  and  earnest  expression.  Maurice 
was  leaning  with  his  back  upon  one  of  the  supports 
of  the  veranda,  looking  down  at  her.  Slowly, 
subtly,  as  he  looked,  she  entered  into  his  being  in 
a  way  she  had  never  done  before.  He  began  by 
thinking  how  white  her  hands  were,  then  how  soft 
and  delicate  her  cheek  and  the  profile  of  her  face, 
then,  with  a  rush,  how  infinitely,  utterly  graceful 
and  desirable  her  whole  exquisite  personality. 
It  seemed  a  startling  exemplification  of  the  very 
points  she  had  been  pressing.  He  was  vividly 
conscious  that  it  was  an  enjoyment  to  watch  her 
as  she  sat  there,  to  realise  her  grace,  her  femininity, 
her  delicate  charm  and  beauty;  and  he  recognised 
that,  whatever  it  was  that  made  it  such,  it  was  not 
his  brain. 

It  was  not;  yet  neither  was  it  his  soul.  There 
is  a  soul  within  us,  but  it  is  not  the  basis  of  sexual 
love  nor  of  the  delight  which  one  sex  takes  in  the 
other;  and  even  in  the  highest  manifestations  of 
that  magnetism,  when  fundamental  causes  are 

264 


THE  YOKE 

most  obscured,  we  are  not  entitled  to  assume  that 
it  is.  Sex  attraction  occupies  too  vital  a  place  in 
the  universal  scheme  to  be  left  to  the  uneven  ad- 
vocacy of  the  soul. 

For  a  few  moments  Maurice  permitted  his  new 
and  delightful  sensation  full  play.  Then  it  broke 
upon  him  abruptly  what  it  meant,  or  what  it  might 
grow  to  mean,  and  how  profoundly  the  conditions 
in  which  he  was  living  could  be  affected  by  it.  It 
seemed  to  him — it  had  so  seemed  to  him  from  the 
first,  though  hitherto  the  matter  had  not  appeared 
important — that  there  were  certain  chords  in  his 
nature  which,  by  accepting  Angelica's  generosity, 
he  was  bound  in  honour  to  leave  permanently 
mute.  He  left  his  place  and  threw  himself  rather 
sharply  into  a  chair  further  along  the  veranda, 
some  yards  from  Cecil. 

"Why  have  you  gone  over  there?"  she  said, 
looking  round.  "You  don't  mind  your  ideas  being 
questioned,  do  you?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Maurice.  "Far  from 
that,  I  think  you  have  quite  convinced  me  that  you 
are  right." 

"Come  back,  then,"  she  said,  smiling,  "and  let 
me  hear  some  more  of  them.  You  talk  rather  well 
sometimes,  although  always  like  a  very  young  man." 

265 


THE  YOKE 

"That's  as  great  an  insult  as  if  I  were  to 
say  that  you  talked  like  a  very  old  woman," 
replied  Maurice,  without,  however,  changing  his 
seat. 

"Oh,  that  wouldn't  be  an  insult,"  said  Cecil. 
"The  'very'  saves  it.  An  old  woman  is  supposed 
to  talk  foolishly,  but  a  very  old  woman  is  full  of 
wisdom.  I've  no  objection  to  be  considered  to  talk 
like  a  very  old  woman,  if  your  exclusiveness  so 
wishes." 

She  was  glancing  across  the  space  between  them 
with  a  delicious  affectation  of  solemnity,  as  she 
threw  the  final  gibe  at  him. 

"At  all  events,  you — "  Maurice  suddenly 
checked  himself. 

"Yes?"  said  Cecil,  firmly. 

"At  all  events,  you  don't  look  like  one,"  he 
finished,  a  little  against  his  will. 

Cecil  laughed  joyfully.  "That's  the  first  time, 
since  I've  known  you,"  she  asserted,  "that  you've 
paid  me  anything  remotely  resembling  a  compli- 
ment." 

Maurice  laughed,  too,  at  that.  "Oh,  well,"  he 
said,  "one  is  obliged  to  speak  the  truth  sometimes, 
even  to  one's  best  friends;  and  I  thought  you  were 
looking  rather  jolly,  Cecil — a  moment  ago." 

266 


THE  YOKE 

"Not  now?"  Chaffing  eyes  pointed  the  In- 
terrogatory. 

"Yes,  now,  if  you  like.  I  believe  you  are  as 
vain  as  everybody  else." 

"That's  not  fair,"  said  Cecil,  emphatically. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  can't  answer  that  question." 

Maurice  still  wondered  why  not,  and  failing  to 
evolve  a  satisfactory  explanation,  he  lighted  a 
cigarette.  Cecil  returned  to  her  book. 

They  were  so  sitting  when  a  skirt  swished  quickly 
across  the  room  behind  them  and  Angelica  came 
out  upon  the  veranda.  She  was  looking  her  best, 
fresh  and  bright  in  a  holland  gown  trimmed  with 
lace,  and  in  excellent  spirits. 

"I  think  we  will  have  tea  out  here  this  after- 
noon," she  said.  "It's  lovely,  isn't  it?"  She 
turned  back  for  a  moment  into  the  sitting-room 
to  give  an  order.  "Good  gracious,  have  you  quar- 
relled?" She  glanced  with  a  smile  from  one  to 
the  other  and  seated  herself  in  a  vacant  chair  be- 
tween them. 

"Maurice  suddenly  took  it  in  his  head  to  go 
over  there,"  said  Cecil.  "I  don't  know  if  I  ought 
to  be  offended." 

267 


THE  YOKE 

"She  said  I  talked  like  a  very  young  man,"  said 
Maurice,  subtly  evading  the  real  point. 

"If  she  were  to  say  that  twenty  years  hence," 
said  Angelica,  drawing  her  chair  back  to  make 
room  for  the  maid  with  tea,  "you  would  rise  up 
and  call  her  blessed." 

"Lately,"  said  Cecil,  glancing  gravely  across  at 
Maurice,  "he  has  been  rather  inclined  to  have  views 
and  to  state  them." 

"That's  a  genuine  grievance,"  said  Angelica, 
arranging  the  cups.  "A  person  may  have  views, 
but  he  mustn't  state  them.  At  least,  not  unless 
he  is  asked." 

"Well,  I  was  never  very  keen  on  taking  my 
notions  at  second  hand,"  said  Maurice,  "and  I've 
been  less  so  since — since — " 

He  was  about  to  say  "since  Chris's  death,"  then 
remembered  Cecil  and  checked  himself  rather 
clumsily. 

"Since  you  came  to  years  of  indiscretion,"  re- 
marked Angelica.  "I  think  you  had  better  bring 
another  table,"  she  said  to  the  maid;  "there  will 
hardly  be  room  for  everything  on  this." 

Maurice  got  up  hastily  and  handed  the  plates. 
When  Cecil  took  some  bread-and-butter  he  again 
noticed  how  white  her  hand  was.  It  also  occurred 

268 


THE  YOKE 

to  him  how  soft  and  supple  and  warm  It  would  feel 
inside  one's  own — not  holding  it  as  one  does  in 
shaking  hands,  but  binding  thumb  and  everything 
inside  an  enveloping  clasp.  Then  she  looked  up 
and  said  "Thank  you"  and  looked  down  again. 
Something  was  playing  tricks  with  him.  It  was 
the  most  commonplace  phrase  in  the  world — she 
had  said  it  to  him  scores  of  times  before — and  she 
always  spoke  softly  like  that — it  was  her  natural 
voice.  And  it  was  absurd  to  suppose  that  there 
was  anything  different,  anything  significant,  in  the 
momentary  glance.  Yet  it  had  gone  through  him 
— through  and  through  him — like  an  electric 
current. 

"Am  I  to  be  allowed  none?"  said  Angelica. 

Her  voice  startled  Maurice.  He  turned  and 
saw  that  she  was  stretching  her  hand  across  the 
tea-table.  It  was  as  white  as  Cecil's,  but  not  so 
tapering,  and  it  had  more  jewels  on  it.  Maurice 
felt  a  deep  compunction  for  his  slight  aberration, 
far  deeper  than  the  mere  fact  explained.  Beneath 
it  was  a  sense  of  at  least  some  temporary  mental 
disloyalty.  Instead  of  immediately  handing  her 
the  bread-and-butter  plate,  he  put  out  his  empty 
hand  and  took  hers  in  a  friendly  clasp. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  dear;  I  didn't  see  you 
269 


THE  YOKE 

were  waiting,"  he  said.     Then  he  passed  her  the 
plate. 

Cecil  had  often  before  seen  such  small  acts  of 
camaraderie  between  these  two,  and  always  hitherto 
they  had  appealed  to  her  as  very  natural  and  de- 
lightful. To-day,  for  some  reason  that  she  could 
not  have  defined,  it  gave  her  the  feeling  that  she 
was  lonely,  that  she  was  out  in  the  cold.  It  seemed 
to  bring  home  to  her  suddenly,  to  focus  for  her 
sharply  in  a  clear  light  just  how  completely  lonely 
she  was.  Since  her  double  bereavement  these 
friends  of  her  childhood  had  come  to  occupy  the 
position  of  the  only  fellow-creatures  who  could 
speak  to  her  heart.  Her  mother's  death  had  re- 
moved the  chief  bond  with  her  aunt.  She  had 
always  got  on  well  with  her,  but  their  outlooks 
were  too  dissimilar  to  provoke  any  real  sympathy, 
and  even  though  they  might  continue  to  live  to- 
gether, it  seemed  unlikely  that  their  intercourse 
could  ever  be  much  more  than  superficial.  As  for 
her  remaining  relations — the  relatives  on  her 
father's  side — they  were  pleasant  and  amiable  peo- 
ple, but  they  had  interests  of  their  own,  and  she  had 
not  been  accustomed  to  see  much  of  them.  Her 
existence  or  otherwise  could  not,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  be  of  great  moment  to  them. 

270 


THE  YOKE 

Among  all  living  people  there  remained  only 
Angelica  and  Maurice  who  were  able  really  to  feel 
with  her,  who  could  understand  her  interests  and 
aims  and  thoughts.  And  this  trifling  incident,  this 
easy,  spontaneous  hand-clasp  had  shown  her  that 
even  they,  deep  down,  were  and  must  be  apart  from 
her.  She  was  very  closely  with  them — they  show- 
ered kindness  upon  her,  she  knew  they  would  never 
speak  or  think  otherwise  than  well  of  her — but  she 
was  not  of  them.  She  was  of  nobody — nobody 
in  the  whole  world. 

Cecil  was  not  given  to  self-pity,  but  this  sudden 
realisation  of  her  utter  loneliness  struck  rather 
sharply  to  her  heart  and,  though  she  tried  to  hide 
it,  produced  for  a  time  a  perceptible  droop  in  her 
spirits. 

After  tea  Maurice  retreated  into  the  house. 
Having  succeeded  in  forming  a  tolerable  hybrid 
between  an  "e"  and  an  "a"  to  fill  the  doubtful 
space  in  "dependent,"  and  subsequently  finished  his 
letter,  he  re-appeared  on  the  veranda  and  asked  if 
they  had  anything  for  the  post. 

"No,"  said  Angelica,  "but  you  might  go  into  the 
grocer's  and  ask  them  why  they  haven't  sent  the 
coffee.  And  do  you  think  you  could  buy  me  three 
reels  of  white  cotton — one  eighty  and  two  sixty?" 


THE  YOKE 

"Saints  alive!"  said  Maurice. 

"Well,  you  needn't." 

"Yes,  I'll  get  them,  of  course.  Anything  for 
you,  Cecil?" 

"No,"  said  Cecil,  "thank  you." 

Angelica  took  her  hand  when  Maurice  had 
gone. 

"You  are  quiet,  dear,"  she  said.  "Have  you 
been  worrying?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Cecil,  "not  that.  I  remember 
sometimes.  I'm  so  sorry;  I'm  sure  I'm  a  nuisance 
to  you.  But  little  things  start  one's  thoughts  and 
then  everything  comes  back  again.  I  was  thinking 
what  a  wearisome  place  the  world  would  be  if  one 
had  no  friends." 

"Of  course  it  would,"  said  Angelica.  "We  are 
fond  of  laughing  at  our  fellow-beings,  but  we  are 
dependent  upon  them  for  every  bit  of  happiness  we 
have,  almost  for  our  sane  existence." 

"It's  easy  to  understand  why  the  masses  have 
such  an  objection  to  emigrating,"  said  Cecil. 
"The  air,  the  space,  the  scenery — one  imagines 
at  first  that  it  would  be  lovely  for  people  out  of 
crowded  towns.  But  nothing  could  compensate 
for  the  solitude;  and  I  suppose  that  is  what  they 
feel." 

272 


THE  YOKE 

"  'Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 
Cathay/'  quoted  Angelica,  with  a  smile.  "I 
think  so  too.  But  what  has  made  you  talk  like 
this?  You  have  quantities  of  friends." 

"Not  close  friends,"  replied  Cecil,  "who  know 
me  well  and  would  really  much  care  what  became 
of  me.  In  fact,  only  you — you  and — and  Maurice. 
No  one  else." 

Angelica  did  not  miss  the  slight  hesitation  on 
the  proper  name. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  let  yourself  imagine  foolish 
things  of  that  kind,"  she  said,  after  a  hardly  per- 
ceptible pause.  "Come,  I  prophesy  that  in  a  very 
little  time — much  sooner  than  you  think,  perhaps 
— you  will  forget  completely  that  you  ever  had  such 
gloomy  fancies." 

Cecil  found  it  difficult  to  throw  off  her  slight  fit 
of  depression,  however.  The  excuse  for  it  might 
have  been  thought  to  have  been  removed.  One 
of  the  parties  to  the  hand-clasp  was  now  showing 
equal  affection  to  herself.  Angelica's  hand  was 
in  hers,  Angelica's  voice  was  comforting  her.  Yet 
she  still  felt  lonely,  she  still  felt  out  in  the  cold. 
Which — it  may  be  stated — came  quite  as  a  surprise 
to  Cecil. 


273 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  Maurice  laid  his  head  upon  his  pillow 
that  night,  he  told  himself  firmly  that  there  were 
several  matters  which  could  well  occupy  his  mind 
until  he  should  fall  asleep.  He  could  think,  for 
instance,  of  his  forthcoming  call  to  the  Bar,  now 
only  a  few  months  distant;  he  could  picture  what 
he  would  look  like  in  wig  and  gown  (an  exercise 
which  had  not  so  far  been  neglected)  and  confirm 
the  decision,  which  in  spite  of  its  original  inflexible 
character  was  in  constant  need  of  confirmation,  that 
in  no  circumstances  would  he  be  guilty  of  the  feeble 
affectation  of  having  his  photograph  taken  in  that 
costume;  he  could  wonder  if  a  man  (without  the 
lead)  would  be  justified  in  doubling  "no  trumps1' 
with  five  probable  tricks  in  clubs,  two  other  aces 
and  hearts  void,  and  how  the  position  would  be 
affected  if  nothing  had  been  said  about  the  heart 
convention;  he  could  think  of  Angelica,  of  the 
honey-sweet  joy  and  the  exquisite  peace  she  had 
instilled  into  his  life,  of  the  care  and  thought  that 
she  had  ungrudgingly  bestowed  upon  him  since  he 
was  a  child,  of  all,  indeed,  that  he  owed  her  and 
must  ever  owe  her;  or  he  could  think — yes — he 

274 


THE  YOKE 

could  think  of  Chris,  of  poor  Chris,  his  boyish  face, 
his  happy,  sunny  nature  and  his  tragic  fate — a  fate 
which,  but  for  Angelica,  he  himself  would  have 
had  an  equal  chance  of  sharing.  On  each  or  all  of 
these  things  he  could  permit  his  mind  to  dwell  with 
the  utmost  propriety,  even  with  advantage.  But 
there  was  one  subject  on  which  he  could  not,  must 
not,  should  not  think,  and  that  subject  was — Cecil. 
This  matter  of  the  regulation  of  our  mental 
energy,  however,  is  one  over  which  the  strongest 
of  us  have  but  an  imperfect  command.  Could  we 
control  our  thoughts  with  equal  facility  as,  say, 
our  speech  or  our  movements,  the  world  would 
perhaps  be  a  happier,  and  certainly  a  calmer  place 
to  live  in.  In  this  respect  Maurice,  especially  in 
a  semi-somnolent  state,  was  no  exception  to  the 
general  rule.  He  made  a  genuine  effort,  but  his 
subjects  overlapped  and  got  into  confusion.  And 
so,  after  vaguely  wondering  if  it  would  be  right  to 
call  the  Bar  on  a  high-court  judge  and  four  junior 
counsel,  or  if  he  ought  to  pass  the  declaration,  he 
eventually  dropped  into  a  pleasant  slumber  under 
the  influence  of  a  delicious  explanation,  which  had 
slid  into  his  mind,  of  Cecil's  protest  that  it  was 
unfair  to  call  her  vain  for  extracting  a  compliment 
from  him. 

275 


THE  YOKE 

Love,  in  the  abstract,  may  be  made  in  heaven, 
but  the  concrete  expression  of  it  which  leads  to 
marriage  is  assuredly  a  matter  of  opportunity. 
Every  man  and  every  woman  is  originally  capable 
of  love,  but  one  compelled  to  pass  existence  on  an 
uninhabited  island  would  manifestly  never  know 
its  fever.  Conversely,  if  a  young  couple  of  oppo- 
site sex,  between  whom  there  is  nothing  actually 
repellent  or  antipathetic,  are  brought  together  by 
circumstances  with  sufficient  persistency,  it  is  prac- 
tically a  certainty  that  they  will  come  to  love 
each  other.  Since  the  renewal  of  their  childhood's 
acquaintance,  eighteen  months  ago,  Maurice  and 
Cecil  had  continued,  through  a  series  of  short 
occasional  meetings,  upon  terms  of  easy  friend- 
ship. Had  no  opportunity  of  more  continuous 
companionship  fallen  in  their  way,  they  might 
never  have  discovered  the  potentialities  of  deeper 
attraction  which  they  held  for  one  another — 
— might  each,  instead,  have  eventually  realised 
some  other  of  the  thousand  similar  potentialities 
dormant  within  them.  The  opportunity  had  oc- 
curred, however;  and  thenceforward  Maurice 
could  hardly  have  escaped  the  necessity  for  his 
nocturnal  mental  exercises  and  for  his  subsequent 

276 


THE  YOKE 

daily  struggles  to  avoid  further  inhalations  of  the 
sweet  contagion. 

It  was,  to  say  the  truth,  an  uncommonly  stiff 
task  which  he  had  set  himself — much  stiffer  than 
he  the  least  realised  when  he  first  put  his  hand  to 
it — nothing  less  than  to  break  the  claim  of  his 
youth — that  youth  which  calls  to  youth  inevitably. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  a  task  which  he  attacked  with 
firm  determination.  A  sentimental  attachment 
was  a  matter  with  which  he  had  no  concern.  In 
that  respect  he  was  not  as  other  men  are.  He  did 
not  allow  himself  even  to  question  that  his  original 
rights  to  love  and  to  marry  had  been  hypothecated 
and  had  passed  from  him. 

But  love  is  a  condition  which  comes  pitifully 
little  under  control  of  the  will,  when  you  are 
brought  into  daily  contact  with  the  object  calcu- 
lated to  inspire  it.  Maurice  made  no  attempt  to 
conceal  that  fact  from  himself,  and  he  squarely 
faced  the  question  whether  he  ought  to  pack  up 
and  return  to  town  instanter.  It  would  be  a  dis- 
courtesy as  a  host;  that  was  a  quibble.  It  would 
be  a  breach  of  faith  with  Angelica,  after  having 
undertaken  to  spend  a  month  at  Lynton;  that  also 
was  a  quibble;  and  both  objections  he  honestly 
discarded  as  such.  But  there  was  a  further  con- 

277 


THE  YOKE 

sideration  which  was  assuredly  not  of  that  nature; 
namely,  that  a  policy  of  flight  would  be  ut- 
terly futile,  since  their  intercourse  with  Cecil  in 
the  future  must  almost  inevitably  be  even  greater 
than  it  had  formerly  been.  He  could  go  away; 
but  to  go  away  and  see  her  face  no  more  was  hardly 
a  practical  possibility  in  existing  circumstances. 
Essentially  he  must  accustom  himself  to  her  pres- 
ence and  get  the  better  of  this  queer  madness  that 
had  come  upon  him,  drill  himself  until  he  could 
again  regard  her  dispassionately  in  the  old  friendly 
way. 

He  was  not  assisted,  it  must  be  confessed,  by  a 
slight  concurrent  change  in  Cecil's  manner  towards 
himself — a  change  all  the  more  perceptible  from 
her  evident  desire  not  to  make  it.  It  scarcely 
amounted  to  constraint,  but  there  was  a  subtle 
something — an  occasional  hesitation,  the  smallest 
of  catches  in  her  voice,  a  passing  quivering  un- 
certainty in  her  glance.  For  a  time,  however, 
Angelica's  presence  made  it  possible  to  avoid  any 
but  short,  incidental  tete-a-tete  conversations.  At 
those  times  they  spoke  only  on  commonplace  topics ; 
but  each  such  trifling  talk  left  something  behind 
it  which,  in  spite  of  his  utmost  effort,  returned 
to  Maurice's  mind,  in  moments  of  quiescence,  with 

278 


THE  YOKE 

soft  insistence.  In  this  way  a  week  passed; 
and  then  this  game  of  hide-and-seek  they  were 
semi-consciously  playing  ended,  as  sooner  or 
later,  it  was  bound  to  end.  Willy-nilly,  they  were 
thrown  for  a  solid  afternoon  into  one  another's 
sole  society. 

Angelica  had  a  headache,  and  the  day  was  so  fine 
that  there  was  no  excuse  for  remaining  indoors. 

"You  had  better  take  the  pony  and  the  tea- 
basket,"  said  Angelica,  "and  go  to  the  Doone  Val- 
ley. You  haven't  seen  it  yet.  Or  you  can  go  on 
foot  to  Waters  Meet." 

"I  would  rather  stay  with  you,"  said  Cecil,  with 
that  little  catch  in  her  voice,  dropping  hastily  into 
a  chair  beside  the  couch  on  which  Angelica  was 
resting,  as  if  it  would  afford  her  an  anchor.  "I 
will  sit  and  read  to  you,  dear." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Angelica.  "I  am  quite  well 
enough  to  read  to  myself.  Where's  Maurice? 
Maurice!" 

Maurice  was  on  the  veranda.  He  came  in 
slowly  through  the  window. 

"Maurice,  you  must  take  Cecil  for  a  long  walk." 

"It  would  be  awfully  jolly,"  said  Maurice,  not 
without  perceptible  hesitation,  "but  I  don't  think 
we  will  leave  you  this  afternoon,  Angelica." 

279 


THE  YOKE 

"Dear  me,"  exclaimed  Angelica,  "how  stupid 
you  both  are  about  me!  I  don't  anticipate 
immediate  dissolution.  I  have  only  got  one  of  my 
quite  ordinary  heads.  You  will  make  it  worse  if 
you  worry  me.  Cecil,  go  and  put  your  things 
on." 

"You  are  sure?"  said  Maurice. 

"You  are  quite  sure?"  said  Cecil. 

"Oh,  be  off  with  you!"  cried  Angelica.  "Be 
off!" 

And  so,  at  last,  they  were  driven  out  of  the  house 
before  Angelica's  derision. 

She  listened  to  their  footsteps  as  they  walked 
along  the  short  gravel  path  and  heard  the  little 
wooden  gate  at  the  end  close  behind  them.  From 
where  she  lay  she  could  see  the  line  of  red-brown 
cliff,  set  in  its  field  of  sapphire.  Long  after  the 
sound  of  them  had  passed  out  of  hearing  she  re- 
mained looking  out  at  the  distant  view,  her  aching 
head  resting  on  the  cushion.  She  sighed  once, 
softly.  Then  she  took  up  her  book  and  began  to 
read. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  said  Maurice. 

"It's  lovely,  isn't  it?"  said  Cecil.  "Whichever 
way  you  like." 

"I  don't  think  it  matters  much,"  he  said. 
280 


THE  YOKE 

"Shall  we  go  down  into  Lynmouth  and  along  the 
valley  to  Waters  Meet?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Cecil. 

Poor  children !  Both  their  hearts  were  beating 
fast.  They  were  intensely,  exquisitely  conscious 
of  one  another;  and  each  was  struggling  desper- 
ately to  conceal  the  fact  beneath  an  assumption  of 
indifference. 

"I  always  think  the  bay  looks  very  jolly  when 
the  sun  catches  the  tips  of  the  waves  like  that," 
Maurice  said  aloud. 

In  his  heart  he  was  crying  exultantly,  "For 
hours  we  are  going  to  be  alone.  For  hours — 
hours." 

Cecil,  her  light  skirt  fluttering  a  little  in  the 
breeze,  looked  seaward,  holding  her  hat,  and  said 
that  she  thought  so  too.  And,  all  the  while,  she 
hardly  saw  the  sea. 

Their  way  lay  through  that  pleasant,  grassy 
upland,  bearing  the  imposing  but  inappropriate 
title  "The  Valley  of  Rocks,"  and  thence  down  a 
steep  road  to  the  dozen  or  so  houses  huddled  on 
the  banks  of  a  torrent,  comprising  the  village  of 
Lynmouth.  From  here  they  followed  the  little 
river  up  a  wooded  valley,  and  were  accompanied 
for  the  rest  of  their  walk  by  that  pleasantest  of  all 

281 


THE  YOKE 

sounds  on  a  hot  afternoon,  {he  sound  of  running 
water,  now  clear  and  strenuous,  now  faint  and 
slumbrous,  according  as  their  path  approached  or 
receded  from  the  stream.  They  had  ample  oppor- 
tunity to  listen  to  it,  for  their  stock  of  small  talk 
and  generalities  dragged  rather  painfully  to  ex- 
haustion, and  neither  of  them  felt  capable  of  push- 
ing the  conversation  into  the  more  intimate 
channels  of  former  days. 

"We  don't  seem  to  be -getting  on  as  well  as 
usual,"  said  Maurice,  abruptly,  from  sheer  neces- 
sity to  say  something,  after  they  had  walked  for 
several  hundred  yards  in  silence. 

"No,"  said  Cecil,  "I  think  we  are  both  rather 
dull  and  stupid  this  afternoon." 

"It's  my  fault,"  said  Maurice.  "What  do  we 
generally  talk  about?" 

Cecil  made  a  little  scoffing  sound.  "Oh ! — what 
we  have  been  doing,  or  what  we  have  been  reading, 
or  what  we  have  been  thinking — anything  that 
comes  into  our  heads." 

The  third  item  brought  vividly  to  Maurice's 
mind  his  exercises  in  restraint  of  thought.  Imme- 
diately restrospective  conversation  would  evidently 
require  delicate  treatment.  He  struck  for  the 
other  direction. 

282 


THE  YOKE 

"Why  not  what  we  are  going  to  do,"  he  said, 
"or  going  to  read,  or  going  to  think?" 

"You  are  stupider  than  ever,"  said  Cecil,  with  a 
half  laugh.  "How  can  we  talk  about  what  we  are 
going  to  think?  No  one  knows  that." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Maurice,  "lots  of  people. 
Professional  politicians,  when  they  have  an  idea 
their  side  is  likely  to  go  under,  know  perfectly  well ; 
so  do  handwriting  experts,  as  soon  as  they  get  a 
solicitor's  letter  asking  them  to  come  and  look  at 
a  cheque." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Cecil. 

"Well,  at  any  rate  we  can  talk  about  what  we 
are  going  to  do — you  especially.  Shall  you  go  on 
living  at  Haslemere?" 

"I've  hardly  thought,"  said  Cecil,  slowly.  "It 
depends  upon  Aunt  Annie.  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Her  tone  had  struck  a  note  of  melancholy — at 
least,  of  pensiveness. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Maurice.  "I'm  afraid  it  will 
be  lonely,  Cecil,  and  horribly  dull." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Cecil,  "at  first.  It  isn't 
that.  So  much  has  happened  there  that — that — 
oh,  that  I  wish  hadn't  happened." 

She  walked  on  quickly.  They  had  come  to  a 
small  stone  bridge  which  carried  the  path  across 

283 


THE  YOKE 

the  stream.  Cecil  sat  on  the  parapet  and  looked 
over.  Several  small  trout  were  darting  hither  and 
thither  in  the  water  below. 

"How  pretty  they  are!"  she  exclaimed.  "Come 
and  look.  You  can  see  them  so  clearly." 

She  had  stretched  a  hand  upon  the  stone  coping 
on  either  side  of  her  to  support  her  as  she  leaned 
over.  As  Maurice  bent  down  to  look,  he  did  the 
same;  and,  by  purest  accident,  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
fell  lightly  upon  the  extremity  of  the  hand  nearest 
him.  She  did  not  withdraw  it.  She  did  not  with- 
draw it.  The  realisation  of  that  throbbed  through 
every  vein  in  Maurice's  body.  To  touch  her  was 
sweet;  to  find  the  touch  quietly  permitted  was  very 
heaven.  The  knowledge  that  his  hand  was  on 
hers  and  that  she  knew  it  and  allowed  it  to 
be  so,  ran  through  his  blood  in  waves  of  utter 
ecstasy.  The  full  voltage  of  a  galvanic  battery 
could  have  held  his  own  hand  less  powerfully  than 
the  tips  of  those  slender  fingers.  They  talked  of 
the  fishes,  of  the  way  the  water  rippled  over  the 
stones,  of  the  view  up  the  valley,  of  each  trifle  that 
caught  their  eye  and  could  help  them  to  go  on 
pretending  to  be  unconscious  of  that  exquisite  con- 
tact— unconscious  of  that  which,  for  the  time  being, 
had  made  fishes  and  stream  and  valley,  the  world 

284 


THE  YOKE 

and  the  people  in  it,  insignificant  items  in  the  sum 
of  things. 

At  last  they  turned  round  and  sat  upright  on 
the  parapet.  Cecil  continued  to  look  down  at  the 
stream  sideways,  and  she  picked  at  the  coping  and 
threw  small  pieces  of  cement  into  the  water.  Mau- 
rice watched  her  with  eyes  as  little  answerable  to  his 
will  as  his  hand  had  been. 

"Does  it  make  you  unhappy,  Cecil?"  he  said, 
after  a  while. 

"Does  what?"  she  asked. 

"That  you  have  to  go  back  to  Haslemere?" 

She  flung  down  several  scraps  of  rubble  before 
replying.  "Perhaps  it  would  if  I  thought  about 
it,"  she  said.  "I  try  not  to." 

"But  do  you  think  you  can  prevent  thoughts- 
some  thoughts?" 

The  tabooed  subject  had  quickly  wormed  its 
way  to  expression,  and  that  in  a  tone  of  tense 
earnestness  which  left  its  application  open  to  no 
doubt. 

Cecil  had  ceased  dropping  scraps  into  the 
stream,  but  her  hand  was  still  on  the  parapet.  She 
moved  her  forefinger  slowly  in  a  circle  on  the 
masonry  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  it. 

"No,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice. 
285 


THE  YOKE 

A  light  flush  gradually  mounted  her  cheeks. 
Maurice  realised,  in  an  amazing  moment,  that  he 
had  reached  a  point  from  which  retreat  was  as 
impossible  as  advance.  Some  words  must  pass  be- 
tween them  now.  He  could  not  answer  that  soft 
avowal — for  soft  avowal  he  knew  it  to  be — with 
a  return  to  the  commonplace.  The  only  think- 
able reply — swift,  flooding,  fervent — was  that 
which  was  burning  on  his  lips  but  could  not  be 
uttered.  Every  moment  that  he  waited  was  a  deep 
offence. 

"Oh,  Cecil,  Cecil!"  he  cried  low. 

Cecil  answered  the  tone.  She  looked  up — 
looked  up  and  met  his  glance.  What  he  read  in 
her  eyes  swept  every  other  thought  from  his  mind. 
He  seized  her  hands,  drew  her  towards  him, 
clasped  her  to  his  heart,  in  the  mad  rapture  of 
that  knowledge  of  love  returned,  which,  at  its  first 
wonderful  apprehension,  gives  a  new  meaning  to 
creation.  Cecil  yielded  herself  to  his  embrace  with 
a  little  sigh  of  happy  confidence,  like  a  child  which 
has  been  wandering  lost  and  has  found  a  friend. 
For  five  seconds  they  were  both  utterly  happy. 
Then  Maurice  remembered. 

He  dropped  his  arms  and  drew  back,  almost  in- 
credulous of  his  own  act. 

286 


THE  YOKE 

"Oh,  heaven,  what  have  I  done?"  he  cried.  "I 
had  no  right  to." 

Cecil  merely  looked  at  him.  She  was  too  be- 
wildered to  speak.  The  sudden  transition  left 
her  for  the  moment  without  power  even  to  realise 
it. 

"Forgive  me?"  said  Maurice,  after  a  moment's 
interval.  "Forgive  me,  Cecil.  I  can  never  for- 
give myself." 

Cecil's  mind  slowly  fixed  upon  the  astonishing 
thing  that  was  happening.  Credulity  wavered  be- 
fore the  apparent  explanation.  Was  it  possible 
that  she  was  about  to  suffer  disillusion  ?  That  all 
these  years  she  had  known  Maurice  she  had  mis- 
read him?  If  that  were  so,  it  seemed  to  her  she 
could  never,  never  believe  in  anything  in  the  world 
again.  Her  slight  form  .stiffened.  She  became 
the  Cecil  he  had  known  on  his  first  visit  to  Haslc- 
mere,  only  with  the  dignity  accentuated,  the  quiet 
stateliness  more  pronounced. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  replied.  "I 
am  not  apologising  for  an  inexcusable  affront.  I 
don't  apologise.  I  won't.  I  love  you." 

Cecil  waited,  her  heart  leaping  beneath  her  calm 
exterior. 

287 


THE  YOKE 

"But — "  he  hesitated,  "but  I  am  not  free  to 
marry.  In  a  mad  moment  I  forgot  it." 

Cecil  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  "You  are 
not  free  to  marry?  You  must  be  free."  Then 
an  incredible  thought  struck  her.  "You  are  not 
married  already?" 

"No,  no,  no!"  replied  Maurice. 

"Then  what  am  I  to  think?"  said  Cecil. 

Poor  girl,  it  was  costing  her  a  hard  struggle  to 
maintain  her  reserve.  She  longed  to  use  the  natural 
weapons  of  her  sex  and,  lip  to  lip,  to  fight  for  her 
happiness  from  this  man  who  had  admitted  his 
love  for  her. 

"Cecil,  I  can't  tell  you,"  said  Maurice.  "Only 
believe  this :  I  want  nothing  so  much  on  earth  as  to 
ask  you  for  that  which  I  cannot  ask  you  for.  Life 
is  going  to  be  very  blank  for  me  in  future ;  I  don't 
know  how  it  is  going  to  be  liveable."  He  stopped 
and  cleared  his  throat.  "Dear,  will  you  give  me 
your  hand  and  say  .you  believe  me?" 

Cecil  gave  it  him — they  were  standing  now.  "I 
believe  you,  Maurice,"  she  said.  "It  is  very  hard 
for  me  to  understand,  but — "  she  hesitated,  "but 
it  would  be  harder  not  to  believe  you." 

They  waited,  wavering.  It  was  such  a  shivering 
plunge  into  the  still  void  of  separation. 

288 


THE  YOKE 

"Of  course,  I  sh'a'nt  embarrass  you  by  staying 
here  after  this,"  said  Maurice,  huskily,  still  holding 
her  hand.  "I  can  make  some  excuse  to  leave  in  the 
morning." 

"Yes,"  said  Cecil. 

He  felt  her  hand  tremble.  He  raised  it  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips.  For  one  moment  their  eyes 
met.  Then  he  released  her  hand  and  began  to 
walk  slowly  off  the  bridge  by  the  way  they  had 
come. 

As  Cecil  turned  to  go  with  him  she  glanced 
mechanically  over  the  parapet.  The  small  trout 
were  still  darting  about — shooting  and  twisting  in 
the  cold  shadow,  not  a  whit  less  energetically  than, 
before,  in  the  dazzling  sunlight.  It  made  no  dif- 
ference to  them — oh,  dear  heaven ! — no  difference. 


289 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  reader  will  have  gathered  through  these 
pages — or  we  have  portrayed  her  very  inefficiently 
— that  Angelica  was  not  an  unobservant  person. 
Therefore,  when  she  saw  Maurice  and  Cecil  return 
from  their  walk  considerably  earlier  than  she  had 
expected  them,  and  found  during  the  evening  that 
there  was  obviously  some  constraint  between  them, 
she  was  able  to  guess  what  had  occurred  within 
a  very  close  margin  of  the  truth.  Her  headache 
had  improved,  but  it  still  troubled  her  somewhat, 
so  she  returned  to  her  couch  after  dinner,  and  from 
there  had  to  exercise  all  her  wit  to  keep  up  a 
reasonable  show  of  animation  in  their  small  party. 
Very  early  Cecil  retired  to  her  room.  She  kissed 
Angelica  with  a  soft  gush  of  warm  affection:  Grad- 
ually her  friends  were  being  eliminated.  It  ap- 
peared to  her  now  as  if  Angelica  were  the  only 
one  she  had  left.  She  passed  Maurice — who  had 
opened  the  door  for  her — with  a  slight  movement 
of  her  head  and  seemed  to  say  "Good-night" ;  but 
it  was  inaudible. 

290 


THE  YOKE 

He  returned  into  the  room  and  began  feeling 
mechanically  for  his  pipe  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Maurice,"  said  Angelica. 

"Yes?"  he  replied. 

"Come  and  sit  here — near  me — I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

Maurice  looked  round,  a  little  surprised.  He 
scarcely  expected  that  Angelica  was  going  to 
lecture  him.  Yet  he  felt  guilty.  He  knew  he  had 
not  been  quite  loyal  to  her  that  afternoon.  For 
two  or  three  ecstatic  moments  he  had  forgotten  her 
utterly,  absolutely.  Moreover,  he  was  conscious 
that,  almost  from  the  day  of  Cecil's  arrival  at  Lyn- 
ton,  he  had  not  been  loyal  to  her  in  his  heart.  He 
crossed  the  room  and  took  a  chair  beside  her  couch. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Cecil,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  He  felt  no  power  within 
himself  to  say  anything  more. 

"You  love  her?"  said  Angelica. 

Maurice  flushed  deeply  and  kept  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the  carpet.  He  was  not  prepared  for  his 
offence  to  be  nailed  so  promptly  and  sharply  to  the 
counter. 

"I  love  you,  Angelica,"  he  said,  with  difficulty 
and  without  looking  up. 

291 


THE  YOKE 

"Yes,  but  not  quite  in  the  same  way.  Don't 
try  to  deny  your  affection  for  Cecil,  because  I 
think — I  think,  remember — she  may  like  you  to 
feel  it." 

Maurice  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  His 
face  was  tense  and  still  flushed.  "What  do  you 
mean,  Angelica?"  he  said,  "what  do  you  mean  me 
to  understand?" 

She  uttered  a  light  laugh,  nearly  naturally. 
"Why,  that  if  you  love  Cecil,  and  she  loves  you, 
you  will  be  a  very  silly  pair  if  you  don't  get  mar- 
ried." 

A  radiant  light  of  surprised  gladness  flashed  up 
in  Maurice's  face  and  flooded  over  it.  The  next 
moment  it  was  gone. 

"Oh,  you  make  me  feel  unspeakably  mean,"  he 
said,  with  deep  humiliation.  "I  had  a  sort  of  half 
notion  you  were  going  to  scold  me,  because  I  knew 
I  deserved  it.  But  I  never  get  what  I  deserve 
from  you — always  generosity,  whatever  I  do:  As 
for  what  you  have  spoken  of,  I  ask  nothing  but 
your  forgiveness;  I  am  horribly  ashamed  to  have 
to  ask  that.  I  am  going  away  to-morrow ;  I  have 
told  Cecil.  We  shall  meet  later  on  when  you  come 
back  to  town." 

"Stupid  boy!"     But  his  words  had  sunk  grate- 
292 


THE  YOKE 

fully  to  her  heart.  "You  have  been  happy  this 
last  year?"  she  said,  softly. 

"Oh,  perfectly,"  he  answered,  earnestly. 

"And  you  have  been  faithful  to  me  all  the 
time?" 

"You  know  I  have." 

"Yes,  I  know  it."  She  paused.  "Well,  now 
you  will  have  to  begin  to  be  faithful  to  someone 
else." 

Maurice  started  to  speak,  but  she  stopped  him 
and  continued,  "I  never  had  the  least  desire  or 
thought  to  keep  you  from  marriage,  Maurice.  I 
always  realised,  I — I  even  hoped  you  would  marry 
some  day.  When  I  asked  Cecil  to  visit  us  here 
I  knew  it  might  lead  to  it;  when  I  sent  you  out 
together  this  afternoon  I  was  certain  it  would.  I 
have  chosen  a  wife  for  you,  though  you  may  not 
realise  it.  I  have  only  to  see  that  you  marry  her, 
and  then  my  stewardship,  which  began  on  the  day 
when  I  first  had  to  submit  to  have  my  dresses 
spoiled  by  grubby  fingers,  will  come  to  an  end.  I 
shall  have  earned  my  discharge,  wash  my  hands  of 
you  and  live  in  peace." 

She  spoke  lightly,  almost  gaily,  but  there  was 
a  deeper  chord  struck  occasionally  which  spoke 
with  far  surer  a  voice  than  a  great  parade  of 

293 


THE  YOKE 

lamentation.  In  truth,  the  actual  imminence  of 
this  breach,  inevitable  though  she  had  always 
known  it  to  be,  had  come  upon  her  somewhat  more 
hardly  than  she  had  expected.  But  she  had  no 
intention  of  swerving  a  hair's-breadth  from  the 
course  she  had  consistently  pursued  with  regard  to 
Maurice — from  the  undertaking  to  "look  after  the 
kiddie"  to  which  she  had  devoted  so  much  of  her 
life.  Her  personal  part  in  that  matter  had  been 
played.  She  had  borne  him  safely  through  the 
perilous  zone  between  manhood  and  marriage 
which  had  cost  poor  Chris  his  life  and  many  others 
much  more  than  life.  He  had  now  come  to  the 
stage  when  it  was  well  for  him  that  he  should 
marry;  and  the  only  thing  that  stood  in  the  way 
was  her  own  individual  loss.  That  was  a  consider- 
ation which  had  never  found  any  chance  to  weigh 
with  her. 

Maurice  was  not  deceived  by  her  tone.  "I  am 
not  going  to  be  disposed  of  in  that  way,  Angelica," 
he  said,  quietly.  "You  and  I  have  scraped  along 
together  very  nicely  for  twenty  years;  and  there 
is  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  go  on  doing  so  for 
another  twenty,  or  forty,  or  sixty,  however  long  it 
may  please  Providence  to  leave  us  both  above 
ground." 

294 


THE  YOKE 

Angelica  gave  him  a  grateful  look.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  feel  some  pride  in  the  fact  of 
this  handsome  youth,  in  the  flush  of  his  morning 
of  promise,  when  the  world  was  beginning  to  ex- 
pand before  him,  calmly  offering  to  devote  his  life 
to  her— —to  her  who  had  passed  the  time  of  her 
illusions  and  grown  grey  in  suffering  and  service. 
It  was  not  a  perfunctory  offer,  which  expects  a 
refusal;  it  was  real;  the  simple  expression  of  a 
thought  consistently  held  and  deeply  felt.  If  he 
owed  her  anything,  in  her  heart  she  felt  she  was 
repaid. 

The  next  moment  she  turned  it  off  with  a  half 
satirical  laugh.  "My  dear  boy,  have  you  any  idea 
how  old  I  am?" 

"I  know  you  are  about  forty,"  he  answered, 
"and  that  is  as  much  as  I  want  to  know.  You 
don't  look  it,  and  I  shouldn't  care  if  you  did.  You 
won't  scare  me  by  references  to  that  subject.  So 
far  as  beauty  goes,  I  never  met  a  woman  to  touch 
you — not  even  Cecil.  Sometimes  you  are  perfectly 
superb." 

Angelica  laughed  at  him,  but  she  blushed  too 
— partly  from  involuntary  human  pleasure  at  this 
eulogy,  so  obviously  spontaneous  and  sincere, 
partly  from  the  "sometimes."  But  the  "some- 

295 


THE  YOKE 

times,"  especially  at  this  moment  of  renunciation, 
could  not  be  ungrateful  to  her.  To  a  woman,  if 
she  be  a  woman  at  all,  there  must  of  necessity  be 
satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  that  those  personal 
gifts,  profusely  lavished  upon  her  by  a  bountiful 
Providence,  have  not  finally  withered  on  their  stem 
unseen  and  unappreciated. 

"You  mustn't  try  to  make  me  vain  in  my  old 
age,"  she  said  lightly.  "And  certainly  you  must 
not  begin  by  depreciating  Cecil." 

"I  couldn't  do  that,"  said  Maurice. 

"No,  I  am  sure  you  couldn't."  She  raised  her- 
self a  little  on  the  sofa.  "Now,  dear,  I  want  you 
to  treat  me  as  if  this  last  year  had  never  been. 
It  is  past — it  is  not  forgotten,  it  can  never  be — 
but  it  is  no  longer  between  us.  I  want  you  to 
make  me  just  your  guide,  philosopher  and  friend, 
as  I  used  to  be.  You  love  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice,  after  a  slight  pause  and 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Then  you  must  marry  her,  Maurice,  if  she  will 
take  you.  You  owe  it  to  her,  as  well  as  to  your- 
self." 

"But  how  can  I,"  he  burst  out,  "how  can  I 
break  with  you  in  this  way  after  all  we  have  been 
to  one  another?  I  should  despise  myself  for 

296 


THE  YOKE 

evermore.  I  owe  nothing  to  Cecil;  I  owe  every- 
thing to  you." 

"You  do  owe  something  to  Cecil,  if  you  have 
made  her  love  you.  No,  no" — she  put  up  her 
hand — "don't  interrupt  me;  you  have  not  done  it 
intentionally,  but  if  she  loves  you,  you  owe  some- 
thing to  her.  As  for  me,  the  balance  is  level  be- 
tween us.  If  I  had  thought  that  you  would  con- 
sider yourself  permanently  bound  to  me,  I  should 
not  have  permitted  what  has  been.  Why,  you 
goose,  if  that  were  not  so,  we  might  just  as  well 
have  married  and  avoided  all  this  defying  of  con- 
ventionalities." 

"Will  you  marry  me?"  said  Maurice,  abruptly. 

"No,"  said  Angelica,  flatly. 

"But  if  Cecil  were  not  in  question?" 

"Even  then  I  wouldn't." 

"Why  not?"  said  Maurice. 

"In  the  first  place,  because  there  is  much  too 
great  a  difference  in  age  between  us,  and  in  the 
second,  and  more  important,  because  I  don't  feel 
for  you,  and  you  don't  feel  for  me,  that  completely 
absorbing,  self-extinguishing  devotion  which  only 
can  make  tied  wedlock  satisfactory." 

Maurice  leisurely  digested  this  frank  statement. 
That  it  had  exercised  a  considerable  modifying 

297 


THE  YOKE 

influence  upon  his  attitude  was  evidenced  by  his 
next  words,  which  ran  off  on  a  new  tack. 

"Oh,  but  the  position  would  be  impossible,"  he 
said,  "with  such  a  secret  between  us.  Every  day, 
every  hour  almost,  one  would  feel  it.  It  is  not  as 
if  Cecil  and  you  were  strangers." 

Angelica  stretched  forward  and  straightened  her 
skirts,  which  had  twisted  uncomfortably.  Then 
she  dropped  her  head  again  upon  the  cushion. 

"Cecil  must  be  told,"  she  said. 

Maurice  stared  at  her.     "Told?"  he  said. 

"Told— told— told." 

It  took  him  a  little  time  to  grasp  how  this  would 
affect  each  of  them.  "It  is  worst  for  you,"  he 
cried  suddenly.  "It  is  always  worst  for  you." 

"No,  it  is  worst  for  you,  dear,"  said  Angelica. 
"I  have  less  to  lose — Cecil's  friendship,  her  respect, 
perhaps — I  can't  tell  how  she  will  view  it.  You 
— well,  all  your  future  happiness." 

"But  you  have  nothing  to  gain,"  •  insisted 
Maurice,  "absolutely  nothing;  and  what  you  have 
to  lose  is  always  more  for  a  woman  than  it  is  for 
a  man." 

"My  dear  boy,  for  a  moment — if  you  can — put 
me  out  of  the  question,  or,  rather,  my  feelings.  If 
it  affected  simply  Cecil  and  you,  would  you  ask 

298 


THE  YOKE 

her  to  marry  you  in  ignorance,  or  would  you  let 
her  know  the  truth  and  take  your  chance  of  a 
refusal?" 

"It  is  an  impossible  position  to  conceive,"  said 
Maurice.  "If  you  were  not  concerned,  there  would 
be  no  question.  The  ordinary  wandering  bachelor 
lapses  would  not  be  on  my  conscience." 

"No;  but  imagine  a  consistent  lapse,  affecting 
a  great  friend  of  the  girl  you  wished  to  marry,  but 
one  whose  feelings,  for  some  reason,  had  not  to  be 
considered?" 

"It's  no  good,"  said  Maurice.  "You  can't 
divorce  her  feelings.  They  must  have  to  be  con- 
sidered. That  is  an  essential  and  inalienable  part 
of  the  situation." 

"Well,  I'll  put  it  in  this  way:  you  couldn't  marry 
her  without  telling  her?" 

"That's  a  leading  question,"  said  Maurice. 

"My  learned  friend  is  very  exigent,"  smiled 
Angelica.  "Could  you  marry  her  without  telling 
her?" 

"No,"  said  Maurice,  unwillingly,  "I  suppose  I 
couldn't." 

"I'm  glad  I've  made  you  admit  it  at  last,"  said 
Angelica.  "Not  that  it  really  makes  any  differ- 
ence. Now,  listen.  Cecil  has  gone  to  bed,  but  I 

299 


THE  JOKE 

don't  think  to  sleep,  or  perhaps  even  to  get  un- 
dressed, poor  dear.  So  I  shall  go  to  her  room  and 
talk  to  her  and — and  tell  her." 

Maurice  sprang  from  his  seat.  uYou  shall  not" 
he  cried. 

"You  can  prevent  me  by  force,"  said  Angelica, 
calmly,  "but  not  by  any  other  means.  As  for  you; 
keep  to  your  arrangements,  pack  your  things,  be 
ready  to  start  in  the  morning,  unless" — she 
dropped  her  voice — "unless  I  bring  you  some  news 
in  the  meantime." 

Maurice,  who  had  taken  a  few  agitated  steps, 
stopped  and  looked  down  upon  her;  partly  with 
abounding  admiration,  partly  with  something  like 
resentment  and  anger.  Then,  in  a  sudden  gust  of 
deep  emotion,  he  sank  on  the  floor,  seized  the  hem 
of  her  dress  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"No,  no,"  said  Angelica,  "not  that!  Come 
and  kiss  me — just  once  more."  She  opened  her 
arms. 

He  knelt  beside  her,  he  slipped  his  hands  be- 
neath her  head,  he  brought  his  lips  to  hers. 

Angelica  put  her  arms  about  him  and  strained 
him  to  her  bosom. 


300 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

APART  from  its  personal  aspect,  there  were 
many  doubts  and  difficulties  surrounding  Angelica 
in  the  mission  she  had  set  herself.  She  knew  that 
if  Cecil  adopted  the  rigidly  orthodox  view — the 
view  which  her  mother  would  have  taken — she 
would  be  obliged,  to  be  consistent,  to  wreck  her 
happiness.  Angelica  herself  was  still  as  profoundly 
sure  of  the  righteousness  of  the  line  she  had  fol- 
lowed as  she  had  been  at  the  beginning;  but  to  feel 
that  conviction  herself  and  to  impress  it  upon  an- 
other, especially  one  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere 
of  rigorously  opposing  sentiment,  were  far  indeed 
from  being  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Such  thoughts  were  in  her  mind  as  she  paused 
momentarily  outside  Cecil's  door,  the  light  of  the 
candle  she  carried  shining  up  into  her  face,  re- 
flected in  warm  tones  by  the  rose-coloured  dressing- 
gown  she  was  wearing.  She  knocked  softly  and, 
receiving  no  response,  opened  the  door  and 
went  in. 

Cecil  was  laid  on  the  bed  with  her  face  to  the 
301 


THE  YOKE 

pillow,  also  in  a  dressing-gown — a  white  one — her 
outer  garments  thrown  carelessly  on  a  chair.  She 
made  no  attempt  to  hide  the  fact  that  she  had  been 
weeping — indeed,  that  she  was  weeping  then. 
Angelica  crossed  the  room  quietly  and  sat  down 
beside  her. 

"Cecil,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  have  come  to  make 
you  my  mother-confessor  to-night." 

Cecil  lifted  her  head  and  looked  round,  her  tear- 
stained  face  surprised  and  wondering.  She  dashed 
aside  her  private  troubles  and  uttered  a  little  in- 
credulous laugh.  "What  rubbish,  Angelical 
Whoever  would  believe  that  you  needed  a  con- 
fessor?" 

"I  didn't  say  a  confessor,"  said  Angelica.  "But 
I  need  your  absolution." 

"Then  you  have  it  without  telling  me  the 
crime,"  said  Cecil,  promptly. 

Angelica  shook  her  head.  "That  won't  do," 
she  said.  "You  must  absolve  with  your  eyes  wide, 
wide  open." 

The  look  of  mystification  in  Cecil's  face  quick- 
ened to  slight  excitement  and  blurred  to  some  extent 
her  deeper  t  feeling.  She  leaned  her  cheek  in  her 
hand. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 
302 


THE  YOKE 

"Have  you  no  suspicion,"  said  Angelica,  "not 
even  a  little?" 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  earnestly. 

Cecil  returned  her  look  as  frankly  as  a  child,  and 
with  a  child's  waxing  curiosity.  "None,  none," 
she  replied. 

Angelica  waited.  Cecil  dropped  her  head  again 
upon  the  pillow.  Her  fair  hair  was  tumbled  and 
loose;  it  fell  in  pathetic  carelessness  on  her 
shoulder.  Angelica  watched  her  in  thoughtful 
silence.  It  would  have  been  easier  if  she  had  been 
less  completely  in  the  dark.  After  a  while  she  ap- 
proached her  subject  from  a  new  direction. 

"You  are  very  unhappy,  Cecil?"  she  said,  softly. 

"Yes,"  said  Cecil. 

Poor  child,  it  was  pitifully  impossible  to  deny  it. 

Angelica  rested  her  arms  on  the  bed.  "Will  you 
trust  me  with  your  secret?"  she  said.  "I  am  very 
trustable." 

Cecil  met  her  earnest  gaze  for  a  moment,  and  then 
dropped  her  eyes.  "I  think  you  know,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Angelica,  quietly,  "I  think  I  do. 
Things  have  happened  to-day  which  mystify  you. 
Maurice  has  not  asked  you  to  marry  him,  though 
you  know  he  loves  you,  and  you  wonder  why?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

303 


THE  YOKE 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you  why,"  said  Angelica. 

Cecil  slowly  rose  to  a  sitting  posture  and  swung 
her  stockinged,  shoeless  feet  over  the  edge  of  the 
bed.  She  pushed  back  the  hair  from  her  temples. 
She  did  not  immediately  connect  this  statement  with 
Angelica's  previous  one  that  she  had  come  to  make 
a  confession,  but  she  realised  vaguely  that  for  the 
latter  to  be  able  to  supply  an  explanation  which 
could  not  be  given  by  Maurice  was  a  fact  pregnant 
of  some  intimate  meaning. 

"Oh,  then  you  know,"  she  said,  partly  to  herself. 

Angelica  was  silent  a  few  moments.  She  gazed 
at  the  small  pointed  shoes  protruding  from  the  hem 
of  her  dressing-gown.  It  was  by  no  means  an  easy 
task  she  had  set  her  hand  to,  even  in  its  personal 
aspect.  For  Maurice's  sake  she  was  going  to  bow 
herself  before  this  young  girl.  She  looked  up  and 
met  Cecil's  gaze  fixed  upon  her,  serious,  wondering, 
but  without  any  indication  that  she  as  yet  had  any 
suspicion  of  the  truth. 

"Oh,  do  try  to  understand,  dear,"  Angelica 
said  urgently.  "I  am  much  older  than  you — it  is 
very  hard  to  speak."  She  dropped  her  eyes  again. 
"Maurice  doesn't  ask  you  to  marry  him  because — 
because  of  his  relations  with  me."  The  last  words 
were  hardly  breathed. 

304 


THE  YOKE 

Cecil  dropped  to  her  feet  and  stood  upright. 

"With  you!"  It  was  less  an  exclamation  than 
a  gasp. 

Had  she  been  told  that  Maurice  was  a  phantom 
of  her  imagination,  it  would  have  broken  upon 
her  with  no  greater  a  shock  of  blinding  astonish- 
ment. 

"With  me,"  said  Angelica,  this  time  looking 
Cecil  in  the  face  and  speaking  firmly,  almost 
proudly.  The  latter's  spontaneous  cry  had  been 
faintly  inflected,  or  so  it  seemed  to  her,  with  a  note 
of  dismay,  of  withdrawal. 

Cecil  mechanically  put  her  feet  into  a  pair  of 
shoes  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  open  window. 
Feeling  like  one  in  a  dream,  she  sat  down  before  it, 
placed  her  elbows  on  the  sill  and  looked  out. 
There  was  a  half-conscious  impression  in  her  mind 
that  the  cool  air  might  help  her  to  realise  the 
stupefying  intelligence  which  had  left  her  tempo- 
rarily without  power  to  think  and  to  weigh.  She 
felt  as  if  everything  in  the  world  had  suddenly 
been  overturned  and  thrown  into  inextricable 
chaos.  It  was  almost  a  surprise  to  her  to  see  the 
stars  still  shining  steadily  out  of  space,  above  the 
faintly  luminous  waste  of  the  calm  sea.  Truly  no 
sight  could  have  been  more  calculated  to  exert  a 

305 


THE  YOKE 

composing  influence  on  her  mind.  In  the  face  of 
that  inconceivable  immensity,  of  those  countless 
myriads  of  suns,  each  with  its  circle  of  planets, 
extending  on  and  on,  deeper  and  deeper,  as  far  as 
the  most  perfect  instrument  could  penetrate,  in 
ever-closing  and  thickening  ranks,  until  the 
furthest  merged  in  a  filmy  blur  of  light — in  the 
face  of  that  sublime  fact,  what  mattered  the  affairs 
of  this  atom  in  the  Universe,  the  paltry  flick  of 
individual  life  upon  it,  of  all  life,  from  prehistoric 
times  to  the  final  heatless,  waterless  waste,  our 
intricate  moral  difficulties  and  uncertainties,  our 
hair-splittings  with  conscience,  our  exquisite  pains 
to  perceive  minutest  right? 

Angelica  did  not  interrupt  her  thoughts.  She 
had  still  much  to  say  to  her,  but  it  could  wait  until 
she  had  reaped  the  fruit  of  her  communion  with 
the  great  infinities.  So  they  sat,  for  five  minutes 
or  more,  these  two  women,  each  so  exquisite  in 
her  utterly  different  way,  in  silence,  one  with  her 
thoughts  turned  inward,  the  other  outward. 
During  that  time  there  gradually  settled  upon 
Cecil  a  dull  pain,  born  of  no  moral  nor  mental 
reckonings  whatever.  An  hour  or  two  ago,  before 
she  came  upstairs,  the  thought  had  passed  through 
her  mind  that,  one  by  one,  her  intimate  friends  had 

306 


THE  YOKE 

been  lost  to  her  and  that  only  Angelica  remained. 
Now  it  struck  home  to  her  heart,  far  more  deeply 
than  any  other  feeling,  that  even  she  must  not  be 
counted  upon ;  that  her  interests  and  concerns  were 
apart  and  necessarily  inimical;  that  henceforth  she 
looked  forth  upon  the  world,  beggared  of  the  last 
stitch  of  steadfast  human  sympathy. 

At  last  she  drew  her  head  from  the  window  and 
turned  round. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  tell  me,  Angelica," 
she  said.  "I  am  afraid  I  must  have  been  very 
stupid  not  to  see  for  myself,  or,  at  least,  to  guess 
enough.  It  makes  everything  easy  to  understand 
and  I  feel  happier  for  that  reason.  Thank  you  for 
knowing  you  could  trust  me." 

She  spoke  quietly,  but  not  coldly.  Yet  there 
was  a  subtle  change  in  her  manner  which,  though 
probably  quite  unconsciously  conveyed  into  it,  was 
not  lost  on  her  hearer.  Hitherto,  in  her  inter- 
course with  Angelica,  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
sit  at  her  feet,  to  treat  her  unquestioningly,  in  all 
respects,  as  her  mentor  and  guide.  Now  her  quiet 
tone  indicated  that  she  had  assumed  independence 
of  thought. 

"I  know  just  how  you  must  feel,  Cecil,"  said 
Angelica,  in  her  calm  voice;  "I  should  feel  precisely 

307 


THE  YOKE 

the  same  if  I  had  been  told,  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly, what  you  have  been  told.  But  I  want 
you  to  try,  if  you  can,  to  keep  an  open  mind  until 
you  know  all  the  influences  that  have  been  at  work. 
It  is  of  great  importance  to  you  and  to  Maurice 
and  to  me  that  you  should  not  form  a  hasty  judg- 
ment. Come  and  sit  near  me;  bring  your  chair 
over  here  and  sit  beside  me." 

Cecil  obeyed  her  quietly. 

"I  won't  be  a  hypocrite,  Cecil,"  Angelica  pro- 
ceeded, when  they  were  seated  together;  "I  won't 
pretend  that  this  life  has  meant  any  sacrifice  on 
my  part.  Far  from  that,  it  has  been  a  great  joy. 
But  I  ask  you  to  believe — to  believe  all  the  more 
because  I  have  made  that  frank  admission — that 
that  reason  alone  would  never  have  induced  me  to 
act  as  I  have  done." 

"I  do  believe  it,"  said  Cecil  in  a  low  tone. 

"There  were  other  reasons,"  continued  Angelica, 
" — or,  rather,  there  was  one  other  reason.  Things 
exist  in  the  world  of  which  you  know  nothing 
— evil  influences  and  physical  ills  which  surround 
young  men.  There  came  a  time,  as  Maurice  grew 
up,  when  I  found  that  to  make  this  nearer  tie 
with  him  was  the  only  means  in  my  power  to  save 
him  from  those  dangers.  I  can't  explain  to 

308 


THE  YOKE 

you  any  more  closely,  Cecil — you  are  so  completely 
untouched — " 

Cecil  had  gradually  quickened  with  emotion  and 
agitation.  She  was  straining  forward.  Tears 
again  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"Untouched !"  she  burst  in.  "How  can  you  say 
I  am  untouched,  Angelica?" 

"You  are  so  young,"  said  Angelica,  gently;  "you 
can't  understand." 

"Untouched!"  repeated  Cecil,  almost  bitterly. 
"I  sometimes  wonder  if  anyone  who  ever  lived  can 
have  been  stricken  more  cruelly  by — by  these 
things  you  were  speaking  of — than  I  have  been. 
It  is  those  things  that  have  taken  from  me  my  only 
brother  and,  indirectly,  my  mother — all  the  near 
relatives  I  had  in  the  world."  Her  voice  quivered 
and  broke.  "And  you  say  I  am  untouched!"  As 
she  finished  she  bowed  her  head  into  her  hands  and 
sobbed. 

Angelica  watched  her  with  acute  compassion. 
She  longed  to  take  her  in  her  arms  and  comfort 
her,  but  she  could  not  do  so  yet. 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  that,"  she  said  gravely. 

"How  could  I  help?"  said  Cecil,  between  her 
sobs.  "No  one  would  answer  my  questions — the 
subject  was  shirked — I  was  treated  like  a  child — 

309 


THE  YOKE 

I  began  to  know  it  was  something  I  must  not  ask. 
How  could  I  help?"  she  repeated. 

The  unanswered  question  echoed  on  Angelica's 
brain  during  the  silence  that  supervened,  recurring 
insistently,  as  the  last  uttered  phrase  invariably  does 
when  a  pause  follows  speech.  Cecil's  sobs  by  de- 
grees grew  quieter.  She  felt  for  a  handkerchief 
and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  know,"  said  Angelica,  at 
last.  "It  will  help  you  to  understand,  and  to  put 
things  into  the  balance,  much  better  than  I  could 
have  hoped.  I  have  no  more  to  tell  you.  For  all 
our  sakes,  judge  kindly,  if  you  can.  And,  believe 
me,  I  am  utterly  sure  in  my  conscience  that  I  have 
acted  rightly.  If  I  were  placed  in  the  same  posi- 
tion again,  I  should  not  only  take  the  same  course, 
but  without  the  difficulty  and  hesitation  which  I 
had  before." 

"I  have  nothing  to  judge,"  said  Cecil,  gripping 
her  wet  handkerchief  into  a  ball. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  said  Angelica, 
hardly  covering  her  anxiety.  "Do  you  understand 
and  forgive?" 

"Forgive !"  Cecil  turned  on  her  almost  fiercely. 
"I  think  Maurice  should  be  more  grateful  to  you 
than  words  can  ever  express." 

310 


THE  YOKE 

"And  you  don't  think  he  is  any  the  worse?" 

"By  touching  you!"  The  question  was  flung 
aside  with  ineffable  contempt. 

"Then,  Cecil,  you  will  take  him?"  Angelica 
stretched  towards  her. 

The  simple  question  broke  upon  Cecil  with  the 
full  force  of  the  wholly  unexpected.  The  eager 
joy  that  momentarily  shot  into  her  eyes,  and  the 
shame  at  letting  it  be  seen,  were  both  overwhelmed 
beneath  sheer  amazement  at  magnanimity  she 
could  not  have  dreamed  of. 

"You  will  give  him  up?"  she  cried. 

"Why,  what  else  did  you  expect,  little  goose?" 
Angelica  smiled  for  the  first  time,  in  pure,  selfless 
relief  that  the  happiness  of  these  two  young  folk 
.eemed  likely  to  be  accomplished. 

She  took  Cecil's  hand  and  continued  quietly: 
"Maurice  and  I  have  been  very  happy  together, 
before  and — since.  But  we  could  not  marry;  it 
would  not  be  good  for  him,  it  might  not  be  good 
for  me.  I  have  always  recognised  that.  I  have 
known  that,  sooner  or  later,  I  should  have  to  re- 
linquish him."  She  hesitated.  "It  has  come, 
perhaps,  sooner.  But  I  give  him  to  you" — again 
she  hesitated — "freely  and  without  grudge — if  you 
will  take  him." 


THE  YOKE 

Except  for  the  little  breaks  to  make  sure  of  her- 
self, she  finished  steadily  and  quietly  as  she  had 
begun. 

Cecil  had  no  words  for  reply.  Among  the  flood 
of  emotions  that  bore  through  her,  first  and  fore- 
most, transcending  all  others,  was  the  thought  of 
the  deep  injustice  of  the  slight  wavering  of  her 
allegiance  to  Angelica.  It  seemed  that  all  her  life 
would  be  insufficient  to  atone  for  it — to  make  up 
to  her  for  those  few  minutes  of  weakened  faith 
between  her  confession  and  the  simple  word  of  her 
unhesitating  renunciation. 

It  was  this  feeling  which  prompted  Cecil's  next 
action.  Slowly  she  sank  on  her  knees,  down,  down, 
to  the  floor  at  Angelica's  feet.  She  abased  herself 
before  her.  She  spread  her  arms  upon  her  and 
laid  her  cheek  upon  her  lap. 

Her  heart  was  bursting,  but  all  that  she  could 
utter  was,  "Dear,  dear,  dear  Angelica !" 

Maurice  was  called  to  the  Bar  in  November,  and 
in  the  following  spring  he  and  Cecil  were  married 
quietly.  The  wedding  took  place,  for  convenience, 
from  Cumberland  Square.  The  house  at  Hasle- 
mere  had  already  been  given  up,  and  Miss  Gaskell, 
by  the  merits  of  the  small  competence  bequeathed 

312 


THE  YOKE 

to  her  by  her  sister,  had  gone  to  reside  permanently 
with  congenial  friends. 

Angelica's  final  words  on  delivering  up  her 
charge,  shouted  through  the  window  of  the  depart- 
ing brougham,  were,  "Take  care  of  the  kiddie, 
Cecil" — an  injunction  which  Cecil  has  fulfilled 
quite  as  scrupulously  as  is  good  for  any  masculine 
mortal. 

As  the  carriage  drove  away,  Angelica  turned  and 
walked  slowly  up  the  steps  into  her  house. 

Do  you  feel  sad  for  her,  reader? 

Her  golden  summer — an  Indian  summer,  it  may 
be — had  come  and  gone. 

She  was  not  sad  for  herself.  She  no  longer 
stood  where  she  had  stood  before.  She  had  eaten 
of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  and  it  had  not 
turned  to  ashes  in  her  mouth.  She  was  equal  with 
her  fellows ;  her  life  had  not  been  a  senseless  thing, 
an  inversion  of  instincts;  she  knew  herself.  And 
over  and  above — in  excess  of  that  abundant 
measure — she  had  fathomed  the  great  truth,  which 
so  few  have  fathomed,  that  the  recognition  of  the 
natural  law  calling  man  to  woman  and  woman  to 
man  is  everlastingly  right. 

Shortly  after  Maurice's  marriage  she  let  her 
house  in  Cumberland  Square  and  took  a  flat. 

313 


THE  YOKE 

There  she  remains  the  well-beloved  of  numberless 
friends.  They  know  just  so  much,  and  no  more, 
about  her  deviations  from  the  social  code  as  she 
cares  to  tell  them.  And  that,  let  it  be  understood, 
is  not  to  say  that  they  are  all  left  in  ignorance. 
For  there  live — thank  God! — even  in  this  world 
to-day,  those  who  can  be  told;  not  the  "charitable" 
ones — not  the  ones  who  would  believe  that 
Angelica  had  done  something  which  they,  in  their 
integrity,  could  forgive  or  overlook — but  those 
who  understand,  who  "see  life  steadily  and  see  it 
whole." 


THE  END 


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